That Thing They Call Honor
by Tonight's The Night
Summary: Cato-centric. "The Games turn everyone into a monster," she says. "Yeah, I know." "So what are you going to do about it, Cato?" "Win." The Hunger Games, from Cato's perspective, starting at the Reaping and ending at his death.
1. It's Supposed to be an Honor

Chapter One

The steel glints when I hold it up to the light. It's a fine sword, made of good steel. The edge is sharp enough to slice someone's arm to the bone.

I slide the sword back into its sheath. Father always makes me clean my weapons after I practice, even on days where I haven't spilled any blood. My trainers agree. I don't see the point. If they're going to pull my name from the pool of volunteers, knowing how to clean blood off a sword isn't going to keep me alive.

I set the now-pristine weapon aside and rise from my desk. As I look around my bedroom, my eyes touch on a dozen different weapons—maces, knives, even a crossbow. I've been trained in all of them so that, if my name does get called for the reaping, I'll be able to kill efficiently.

But the odds are not in my favor. There are hundreds of volunteers every year in District Two. Because we are militarized. Because we know the honor that comes with victory, unlike the tributes of some of the other districts. Because we understand that facing death to bring home victory for your district will also bring a flood of gifts and praise that will make the next year that much more pleasant.

And of course, the individual who wins is set for life. There's always that.

I walk over to my dresser and don the outfit my mother set for the reaping. I'm glad, as I pull the sleek, black-and-white blazer onto my body, that I'm not from one of the lesser districts. This way, I have a better chance of getting in. Having the whole teenage population to draw from is too random—I prefer the thought of being selected from a pool of people who actually _want _to win.

"Cato, honey, are you ready to go?" my mother calls from the bottom of the stairs. I secure the buckle on my belt, making sure everything is straight and perfect in the event I get chosen.

"Yeah, coming."

I'm downstairs half a minute later. As I reach the landing, my mother presents me with a plate of steak, drizzled with some savory sauce she bought downtown.

Not great as far as last meals go, but I suppose the odds of me getting picked really aren't _that _huge. No reason to make a big deal out of it. I sit down at the table, slice the steak apart, and start eating, being careful not to get any of the sauce on my jacket. That would make a poor impression on any potential sponsors. I would look sloppy. Which might be good if I was going for a savage look, but I'm not. So even though I normally don't care if I get food on my clothes, I'm careful.

I hear my father clomping down the stairs in his steel-toed boots. He works at the stun gun factory eight blocks away, making non-lethal weapons for the Peacekeepers our district provides. Safety regulations at the factory are strict—you get caught without proper attire, you get fired. Maybe even publicly whipped, if what you wear is rebellious enough.

Like anyone would need to rebel. We're one of the best districts. Our tributes win one out of every four or five games. We're the ones who get so many sponsors, we almost never go hungry despite it being called the Hunger Games.

"Ready for the reaping?" my dad asks, sitting down across from me.

"Yeah." I push the lettuce around on my plate for a moment before popping it into my mouth. Meat is good for keeping your energy up, but a balanced diet gives you long-term fortitude. Or so I've been told.

"Think you'll get picked this year?" he asks.

I've been volunteering for the past four years, since I was fourteen, but my name's never been drawn. I'd wanted to volunteer earlier, but my father had claimed that twelve-year-olds almost never won, not even if they were from the good districts. "I hope so. The last two years have been nothing but weaklings." _Two of them got killed on the first day, and the other two didn't even make it to the final four. _

My father nods noncommittally, as if he's trying not to get his hopes up too high. Just like participating, having a child volunteer for the Hunger Games is an honor in District Two.

"You practiced with your sword already?" he asks.

I nod. "Every day."

"Good. There are usually a bunch of different weapons at the Cornucopia, but even in years where the selection is limited, you almost always see swords."

I nod again. There was that one year when competitors only had spiked maces to bludgeon each other with. I would've done well in that one too, but I wasn't of age to compete back then.

I stand and shovel what's left of my lunch into the trash. I set the plate on the countertop, knowing my mom will wash it later. An image of me flying back to the Capitol after I win the Hunger Games flashes through my mind. If I win, Mom will never have to wash another dish again. We could have a whole house just for our servants, and have them come in to clean every day.

I have to wait at the doorway for my parents to be ready. Since I'm in the pool of volunteers, they're allowed to come along. There isn't enough space for all the kids and their families in District Two to attend the reaping, so only the pool of volunteers stands at Central Plaza with their parents and siblings on reaping day. More space for us to make a dramatic entrance, I suppose.

Eventually, they're ready to go. I lead the way down the street, to the train station. All rides to the plaza are free today—apparently volunteering gives you special privileges on reaping day. Either way, we share a train with about a dozen other people. From their fancy clothes—not just expensive, but specially made, hey-look-at-me clothes—I can tell they've also volunteered. Some of them look atrocious, so decked out it's tacky. One girl wears a dress dotted with thousands of flashing lights.

Thankfully, it's a short ride. I get off at the plaza and walk toward the center, lining up with other boys my age. I stand behind a cluster of sixteen-year-olds, waiting for the show to start. Cameras peer down at us from every available ledge, some of them hanging precariously from the edges of buildings. A large concentration of them sits at the platform where the lucky pair who gets chosen this year will stand.

Dismay washes through me when I see the lenses. If I get called onto that platform, every one of those cameras will be trained on me, waiting to document my businesslike demeanor, my piercing gaze, my fierce stance.

Or the look of panic on my face, the way my skin will pale under all those cameras, the too-sharp contrast of my white-and-black jacket.

I shove those thoughts away, reminding myself that this is an honor. If I get chosen, I'll have cameras trained on me for every minute of the Games. If I win, I'll have cameras in my face for the rest of my life, watching as I groom future tributes for glory.

Besides, a camera lens is pretty low on the spectrum of things I _should _be afraid of. Even tributes like me have fallen due to bad odds or circumstances. That's why the announcers always say "And may the odds be _ever_ in your favor!" In our district, they usually are. So long as nothing too outrageous happens in the first hour of the games, the tributes from District One, Two, and Four generally survive to the final eight, at least.

Sometimes, though, the gamemakers _do _think of something outrageous, and our tributes get killed early on. But that's a rarity. They like to keep us alive longer because we give them the most exciting footage.

After almost an hour of standing around, they seal off the plaza and introduce the past winners of our district. This takes several minutes. The only district that outnumbers us in the number of living tributes is District Four, and only by a thin margin. Once the names have been read off, a white-haired woman from the Capitol steps up to the podium at the front of the stage and leans into the microphone. Her accent is heavy, almost as if she's speaking like that as some sort of put-on. But after years of watching the Games, I know this is actually how they speak.

It's annoying, but also impressive in a way. How they manage not to laugh at everything they say is a mystery to me. Maybe they don't even realize they're speaking so strangely.

Our district gets a new speaker every year, unlike some of the poorer districts. I've already forgotten the white-haired woman's name by the time she starts reading off The Treaty of Treason. I know this takes a while, so I tune out, keeping still so I'm not noticed. It's unlikely, but if I get picked, and the female tribute happens to see me fidgeting as I stand here, she'll think I'm weak, and I'll have difficulty forming an alliance with her.

No. I stand still and silent, allowing only my mind to drift as the woman trills through The Treaty of Treason in her bizarre accent.

"All right!" she squeaks. The microphone blares with the volume of her voice, and when she speaks again, it's softer. "It's time for the drawing."

She steps over to the glass balls that contain all the names of those who volunteered. My name is in the one on the left, closest to the podium, but the woman skips right past that one and stands behind the girls' sphere. "Ladies first," she says into another microphone. Moving her arm as if it was a snake, she slips her hand into a hole in the top of the sphere and plucks a slip from the sea of papers. "Clove Attila."

I wait, my eyes roaming the sea of female tributes for the girl with that name. A flash of movement catches my eye, and I see a girl with dark brown hair pushing her way through the crowd. The cameras catch her a moment later, revealing her face on the massive screen behind the platform. Her green eyes are dry, which seems like a good sign. Sometimes, parents make their children sign up for the Hunger Games, expecting them to bring honor to the family just for volunteering. But since this girl doesn't appear to be in tears, I have to assume she had at least some say in volunteering.

Not like me. Not that I care. But my father told me over and over again, since I could hold a knife, that I was going to volunteer for the Hunger Games when I was old enough. I never minded because, of all the people who could possibly be chosen, I'd always had an edge.

I've been training for years. Few tributes are as prepared for this as I am.

Clove reaches the stage and climbs gracefully up the steps, her forest-green reaping dress trailing behind her. I find myself glad that she didn't dress in something frilly or tacky, like that girl I saw on the train. This way, she'll get more sponsors. And if I'm chosen, and I ally with her, anything she gets comes my way, too.

If I get chosen. Which, I tell myself as the camera pans over the male tributes, is not as likely as my parents like to think.

"And now for the boys," the white-haired woman sings. She crosses over to the other sphere and buries her hands in the slips of paper. She seems to take more time on this one.

_Or maybe you're nervous, and it only seems longer, _thinks some insidious part of my brain. _Maybe you're afraid of being called._

Nonsense. I've been training my whole life for this moment.

Finally, the woman pulls a slip from the ball. There's no way to tell if it's mine or not—all the slips are identical except for the names typed onto them. But I imagine it's mine, that she's going to call out my name, and I'm going to stride up to the platform like I have every expectation of winning.

But when my name actually crosses her lips, I feel like someone's kicked me in the chest.


	2. The Odds

Chapter Two

The name echoes in my ears, vibrating like a tuning fork struck against a metal pole.

_Cato Talaith._ My name.

The other volunteers look around, waiting for me to emerge from the pack. Some of their faces are relieved—those are the ones who got pressured to volunteer. Most are at least somewhat disappointed, which is the face I would've been wearing if I hadn't been called.

But my name _has _been called, and they're waiting. Every word my personal trainers ever said about poise flashes through my mind, and I step forward, my face smooth, empty. Because that's the best I can manage now, in front of these cameras. I'd been hoping for confidence, or ferocity. But I can lift neither of those masks to my face now, as I walk up to the platform. As people notice my movement, the cameras pan down to get a better view of my face. I catch a glimpse of it and see that there is nothing there. I look as controlled and impassive as my first name suggests.*

In control. Seeing that look on my face makes it so much easier to feel that way. By the time I take my place next to Clove, I'm in control of myself again. There is nothing to fear. I've been selected for a great honor.

"May I present the tributes of District Two!" chimes the white-haired woman, holding up the forgotten stack of papers labeled "The Treaty of Treason."

A deep roar explodes from the crowd, their hands coming together in thunderous applause. Even the tributes who would've given anything to stand in my place clap, because it's expected of them. If you don't clap, the Peacekeepers could arrest you for treasonous thoughts.

Stupid. District Two doesn't need such strict guidelines. We have no reason to rebel.

For a moment, the cameras focus on the audience, only a few remaining to broadcast my face on the smaller screens around the big screen. I glance at Clove, sizing her up now that we're on the same platform. She's a head shorter than I am, but under the silken folds of her dress, I can see the defined muscles of her arms. I imagine what they'd look like in motion, try to imagine what skill she's cultivated to build such impressive muscles. In addition to her apparent strength, she's tan. That could either be a fake tan worn to attract sponsors, or a tan received outside, practicing survival skills. If it's the latter, I'll definitely have to team up with this girl.

After a few minutes of applause, the crowd's excitement dies down enough for the white-haired woman to speak again. "Follow our cameras all the way to the Capitol, and don't forget to tune in for the reapings of all the other districts." She turns her head in our direction, but keeps most of her body facing the audience. "And may the odds be _ever_ in your favor!"

By this point, I've recovered enough to smile. Another screen catches my eye, and I see that my smile doesn't just look confident—it looks savage.

The other tribute and I are ushered into a door covered with black paper. The Peacekeepers' shoulders are rigid, their feet coming down in perfect unison as they march. It makes us look lax and uncoordinated by comparison, and I have a moment where I want to scream at them for making us look so sloppy. Don't they realize we could be losing potential sponsors with every perfect step they take?

My personal trainers have taught me to keep my anger under control. I don't lash out at the Peacekeepers. I don't start yelling. Doing so would be unprofessional. People would look at me like a screaming toddler instead of a serious competitor.

Better to save my fits of temper for the arena, where they can do some good.

Every surface seems to shine in the building we've entered. The tiled floor reflects the fluorescent lights perfectly, doubling the amount of light in the corridor. Sunlight slants in from the windows on the west side. All the reapings take place at two in the afternoon, but since the recordings are staggered throughout the day, it's feasible to watch them all. As we walk, I consider this. There are some things to be gleaned from the reapings, like what I've picked up from my fellow tribute so far, but nothing I can't discern within minutes once we arrive at the Capitol. Maybe I'll check in at the end of every display, to learn the names and faces of the people I'm going to kill.

At that thought, the flutter of unease I felt before stirs again in my stomach. I've killed livestock before, in my training. Mostly pigs, because they're closest in physical structure to humans. I've even bloodied some of my trainers in preparation for these games.

But I have never killed another person.

I swallow the lump rising in my throat, glad only one camera is following us now, and we're concealed by the box of Peacekeepers. Every moment of weakness I show is a lost sponsor. I must remain in control of myself, at least until I've proven myself in the Games.

Maybe it's better if I don't watch the other reapings. Give myself some time to calm down instead.

We reach the end of the corridor and turn. Almost immediately, this hallway opens up into a vast chamber filled with couches and chairs. Pushed against the wall to my right is a massive desk, made of some expensive lumber. The secretary looks away from a TV screen as we enter. Though I can't see what's on, I know what she's watching. There will be only one program to watch for the next few weeks.

"You will stay here until your family comes for their final goodbyes," says one of the Peacekeepers. From the ornate badge on his shirt, I can tell he's higher ranking than the rest. Not the Head Peacekeeper, perhaps, but close. Few are trusted to escort the tributes anywhere. "You may bring one token into the arena to remind you of your district, but no weapons."

As if I didn't know that. I'm already wearing my token anyway—a bolt my father brought from work last week to represent to military power of our district. Molded for a stun gun, it's the closest thing I can get to a real weapon without breaking the rules.

I nod, as does Clove, a few feet away. In some districts, the tributes are separated at this point, because farewells tend to draw out tears. But in District Two, tributes are expected to remain composed through the whole thing, even this part. Tributes remain together to remind each other that the games have already begun, that there is no time for tears.

Fine with me.

It takes several minutes for my parents to show up, even though they arrive before Clove's family. My mother is weeping openly when she takes my hands in hers. "You'll be just fine," she chokes out, twin trails of tears running down her cheeks. Her body gives a little shake, and then she's sobbing in earnest.

I lean forward and hug her. Even though I've been training my whole life, the possibility of me actually getting chosen has been so remote, I've gotten complacent. I haven't distanced myself from my parents as I should have. When I hear her crying, my eyes prick with something like sympathy.

But I don't cry. Even kids from the weaker districts know not to cry. What would they think of a tribute like me, weeping when I should be smiling?

My mother cries for a while longer, only managing a few words at a time. Once I realize she's not going to pull it together in the limited time we have, I try to comfort her. "I'll come back for sure. I'm more prepared for these games than anyone."

She sniffs, coming back to herself a little bit. Her eyes, the same piercing blue color as mine, flash to my father. There's something almost wary in her eyes, as if she wants to speak her mind, but doesn't dare say whatever it is in front of him.

And then I know: my mother has never wanted me to participate in the Hunger Games.

My father shifts his weight to his other foot, looking irritably at the TV. It's replaying my walk up to the platform. After a few moments, he becomes engrossed in the program.

My eyes slide back to my mother, begging for her honesty. She returns my gaze with a broken smile.

"The games turn everyone into a monster," she whispers.

I remember a dozen earlier games, the drastic transformation from calm or excited tributes to savage killers, and nod. "Yeah, I know."

Her body shakes, and for a moment, I think she's going to lose her composure again. I realize I've slid out of her embrace and have gone back to just holding her hands. I squeeze her palms a little tighter between my fingertips.

After another glance at Father, she manages to speak again. "So what are you going to do about it, Cato?"

_Do_ about it? What does she mean? I'm going to do what I was trained to do. I'm going to wipe out the weaker competitors, then turn on the other trained tributes, just like our district does every year. Her question confuses me for several seconds so that, when I finally answer, the word sounds forced and uncertain. "Win."

"You'd better," my father says. I turn to him and see the reflection of the TV screen in his eyes. "And if you want to do that, you have to do better than this." He jerks his chin toward the screen. "You look like a robot. Put more ferocity into it. I've seen you do it in training."

I nod because this is exactly what I'd been thinking about a moment ago. He's right—my looks and strength will get me some sponsors, but if I want to get showered with gifts like most District Two tributes, I have to develop a memorable persona. "I will."

My father approaches and rests a callused hand on my shoulder. From what he's told me, he volunteered for the Games every year from the time he was eligible until he passed the age limit. I suppose I must be living his dream right now. "You're going to win. Just hold your temper until the games start—the last thing we need is for you to get disqualified for fighting with another tribute."

I have to resist the impulse to roll my eyes. I haven't lost my temper since I was eleven, when I threw one of my practice swords out the window after the wooden blade splintered during a sparring match. I have to consider the surge of anger I felt at the Peacekeepers a moment ago, but I'd kept that under control, too.

It's a rare day when my father irritates me. Most of the time, he understands me better than Mom. He understands the pressure I face, having volunteered for the Games so many times himself. But he should know how well I've kept my temper lately.

"Okay," I say.

He nods once. Just then, the Peacekeepers tell them they have one minute left to finish their sentiments. Without warning, my mother catches me in another tight hug and starts sobbing into my shoulder. "My boy, my little boy . . ."

"It's okay, Mom. I'll win, and then I'll come back."

From the corner of my eye, I see Clove glance at me. Her green eyes are sharp, like the point of a dagger. She gives an almost imperceptible nod, and I know she's thinking the same thing.

Which means, even if we team up, she'll kill me whenever she sees fit.

Which is exactly what I plan for her.

My father pats me on the shoulder again as the Peacekeepers order them out of the room. And then I'm alone in a room with a girl who plans to kill me as soon as she gets the chance.

It's not exactly the best time to make conversation, but there won't be many opportunities, and if I can get her on my side now, I'll have more time to win over the other useful tributes once we get to the Capitol.

Before I can say anything, though, she speaks. "I want to form an alliance with you."

_Well, that makes things a lot easier, _I think, reclining in my chair. "Yeah? And why would I team up with you?"

Irritation flickers across her face, as if she can't believe I wouldn't see how useful she is as a teammate. I simply arch one eyebrow and wait for her to answer.

She turns away from me and pulls something from her pocket. I see of glint of silver before she throws the object twenty meters across the room. When it hits the wall, it sticks, and I get a good look at it.

It's a throwing knife, with two blades extending out from a central point. One blade has almost vanished in the sheetrock, while the other points back at Clove like an arrowhead. I imagine the knife burying itself between someone's shoulder blades and smirk.

It would seem the odds are definitely in my favor.

* * *

><p>* Cato's first name means "good judgment" in Latin. Since Cato isn't the kind of person to dwell on names, his thoughts don't delve into this in the text, so I put it here. Additionally, his last name, Talaith, means "crown." I thought this was fitting because, of all the tributes Katniss faced in the arena, Cato was sort of the king of the antagonists.<p> 


	3. To the Capitol

Chapter Three

"I'm afraid we're going to have to confiscate your weapons," the Peacekeeper says to Clove, his dull eyes drifting to the hole in the sheetrock. I can't help but feel a little smug. All the volunteers are told up front that they can't bring their own weapons into the Hunger Games, or even into the Capitol.

Clove's eyes flash with something like annoyance, but her lips pull back in a smile. Perhaps she knows weapons are not allowed, but wants to practice with her throwing knives before the games start. But the time for practice has gone, and if she's not ready, a few more days isn't going to help her.

I watch her pull a leather roll from beneath her dress. She's fit it so close to her body that it's gone unnoticed even under the slimming folds of her reaping outfit. The Peacekeeper with the ornate badge takes it and unrolls it. As soon as he does, I take a moment to examine the most diverse set of knives I've ever seen in one place. There are throwing knives, like the one she threw into the wall, but I also see serrated knives that could be used for sawing through small branches. _Or flesh and bone, _I think. I'm not quite as repulsed by the thought as I'd been a few minutes ago. Now that the initial shock of being reaped has worn off, I can contemplate killing the other tributes easily.

Clove's knife skills, if she gets to use them, will invariably prove useful to our survival. But if she finds throwing knives in the arena, her range will exceed that of my sword. And while I _can _use long-range weapons, they're not my strong suit, and they don't appear in the arena as often as melee weapons do. But I'm almost positive there will be an abundance of knives, and that puts me at a disadvantage for the moment when Clove betrays me.

I'll have to kill her first, before I turn on the other tributes. That's the only way. District Two will view this either as a horrifying crime—cutting down someone from my own district before eliminating the rest—or, if I win, a decisive tactical maneuver.

The Peacekeeper asks her if she has any other weapons. I half-expect her to pull a dagger from her hairpiece, but she doesn't.

"What about her district token?" another Peacekeeper asks. I'm watching Clove's face, so I see the cold brush of fury that passes through her eyes as they dart down to the ring on her finger. Her jaw flexes as she lifts her hand.

"We'll have to examine that."

Clove gingerly removes the ring, as if she's afraid it was going to stab her somehow. Maybe it will. Tributes have used their district tokens as weapons before. The rule seems to be that if you can slip it past the Gamemakers, you can use it in the games.

She's young. It's possible that she's foolish enough to think she can pull something over on the Gamemakers. But whatever's going on with that ring, I'm hope its absence will hamper her plan. And also hoping it gets through and she uses it on our enemies before she uses it on me. The tug and pull of ally versus enemy. The only thing I have to fear from this girl is a premature betrayal.

A moment later, the Peacekeepers ask for my token. I hand it over, knowing they won't find anything threatening on the innocuous metal bolt.

I allow my mind to wander a bit as the Peacekeepers examine our trinkets. When several minutes go by, they decide to take both away for further study. A few minutes later, the Peacekeepers return and we're ushered over to the train station I arrived in before my name got called. The sound of steel wheels squealing against the glittering tracks pierces my ears, but as the cushion of air that accompanies all the fast trains pushes through the station, something hits me.

I might never see District Two again.

This afternoon has been full of pleasant and unpleasant revelations, but this one knocks me breathless, just like the moment when my name was called. I stare at the side of the train car as it screeches to a stop in front of me. I'm barely able to stagger through the doors as they slide open.

If I don't win—and despite the odds being in my favor, there's a fair chance of that—I'll never see this place again. Never see my parents or my friends. Never see my school, or the places where I spent hours each day developing my skills.

"_So what are you going to do about it, Cato?" _my mother had asked.

And I'd given her the simplest answer, the one that covered all my bases: _"Win."_

"There's food available all day," one of the Peacekeepers says. I hardly hear the words. My stomach contracts painfully, and I know I won't be able to eat much anyway.

None of the cameras are looking at my face. I take half a second to rearrange it into the composed mask I wore before, and turn back to the men who'd escorted me onto the train. "And do we have private rooms?"

"Of course. Yours is down the hall and to the left. But you may wish to refrain from going there until you've met your mentors."

_Ah, the mentors. Of course. _"When will they be arriving?"

"Why?" demands a female voice. "You got somewhere you need to be?"

I turn to the speaker. Though her lips are parted in what appears to be a smile, each of her teeth are filed down to sharp points, tipped with gold. I recognize her immediately.

Enobaria Black, winner of the sixty-second Hunger Games. The one who savaged another competitor with her teeth in order to win.

Another man comes up behind her. It takes me a moment to recognize this one. I watch the games every year, even the parts that aren't mandatory to watch. I've seen him mentoring tributes from District Two for years now, and after a moment, the name comes to me: Brutus Lajos.

"So you're what we've got, huh," Brutus says. Something about the way he says it makes the muscles in my neck stand out. "We're going to be busy."

Enobaria loses her smile and sits down on one of the benches attached to the wall. "The boy might be useful. He's got some muscle behind him."

I repress a smile while Clove represses a hiss. "I can kill a person a hundred different ways with one knife," she claims.

"Yeah, and I can kill people with my teeth," Enobaria says. "What makes _you _think you're savage enough to win the Hunger Games? Have you ever gone three days without food?"

I see the downward slant of Clove's lips and know that she has not. Neither have I, of course. There's little point in starving a potential tribute—it would weaken us. That's why tributes from the lesser districts almost never win. But it doesn't seem prudent to mention that, since Enobaria is currently berating Clove for her lack of hard experience. "When my training scores were sub-par, my trainers would send me out into the woods and make me fend for myself. Try to guess how long you'll last if your food supply gets washed away, or blown to bits."

Clove flushes red, her freckled face turning down.

"And what of you, boy?" Brutus asks. "You ever actually fought someone, or have your trainers just put you through drills until you were sore from eyes to toes?"

"I spar with my trainers every day," I growl. "I've slaughtered animals so I know what it feels like when my sword cuts into flesh."

Brutus actually smiles at this. "Well, we might have a winner this year, after all. Fine. Once we get to the training center, we'll see just how good you are. Until then, eat. Sleep. Get your strength up. Get a few ounces of body fat on you. You're going to need it."

Almost in unison, our mentors turn and walk down to their train car. I can't help but feel abandoned. From what I've seen on TV, most mentors don't leave their charges alone for a second. The poorer districts that have little hope of winning are the only exceptions. For example, I almost never see that drunkard from District Twelve watching over his tributes. Clearly, District Twelve doesn't see the honor in winning the games.

Maybe that's only at the training center, though. There isn't much room on a train car to practice, after all.

By tacit agreement, Clove and I head over to the buffet table to get something to eat. We are silent for the first few minutes, picking through the richest foods. Though there are some dishes I recognize from our district, most are fancy Capital fare. Even my family, well off enough to support a tribute in training for eighteen years, would only buy some of these dishes on special occasions.

If I win, I'll have enough spare cash to raise a dozen potential tributes, then handpick the two or three that would have the best chance of winning. Victors' kids also tend to get pulled into the arena a lot more often, so it would be to my advantage, if I win these games, to have several children.

But that's something to consider later. After I find a nice place in District Two's Victor's Village.

Our plates overflow with a plethora of different dishes. Some are cold, like the lemon custard on the edge of my plate. Some are still steaming, like the crab legs Clove has plucked from the buffet. Everything is delicious.

"I accept," I say, after a few minutes of silence.

Clove looks up. For a moment, she says nothing. Then, when I give her no more detail, she asks, "Accept what?"

"Your offer of teaming up. I accept." I watch her face for a reaction, wondering whether she will show relief, which would indicate that she might be weaker than her knife skills suggest, or contempt, which would suggest she's unimpressed with what she's seen from me. Either is possible. I haven't had an opportunity to show her my techniques, so the only thing she has to go on is my toned body.

Her face remains placid, showing no surprise. She looks down at her plate and cracks open one of the crab legs to reveal a stringy stretch of meat. "I thought that was a given," she says, dipping the crab meat in butter. "Tributes from the same district always team up."

They don't. Not always. In fact, it's usually the people from Districts One, Two, and Four that team up, plus any others who seem useful. The rest all fly solo or get killed at the bloodbath. "Then why bother asking?"

"Courtesy," Clove says.

At this, I have to laugh. Courtesy? Right before the Hunger Games, knowing the only way to win is to kill every other tribute, including your district partner?

Clove glares at me. Apparently, I'm the only one here with a sense of humor. "What?" she demands.

"It's just—" I break off, pressing my forehead to the tablecloth as I laugh. "This isn't the kind of place where one would expect good manners."

"Do you want other allies, or not?"

I try to recover from the convulsive laughter, but my reply still comes out shaky. "Of c-course."

"Then learn some self-control. These games are the most intense thing that ever happens in Panem, and if you want to stay alive, you have to take them seriously. Same with the other Careers."

_Careers? _I think, wondering what she means. The word is vaguely familiar after years of watching the Hunger Games, but it takes me almost ten seconds to remember where I've heard it. _Oh yeah, that's how the weaker districts refer to the tributes from One, Two, and Four. _

I'm surprised to hear Clove refer to us like this. Maybe it's because she doesn't want to be long-winded by repeating the district numbers over and over again. Whatever the reason, the name is convenient enough.

I've stopped laughing now, which Clove takes as a sign to continue. When she speaks, she lifts her hand to gesture to the TV screen. "See that pair? That's District One."

We learn the basic facts of the other districts in school. I know District One is in charge of producing luxury items for the Capitol, just as our district supplies most of the Peacekeepers. I also know that they tend to do well in the games, despite their normally outrageous appearances at the opening parade.

What surprises me is how much I _don't _know. Even though I'm not at the top of my class, I manage to keep good grades, and I've retained a lot of information about _my _district over the years. Yet I know almost nothing about the other districts except for their district symbol, what they produce, and how well they do in the games. Going into an arena to face them down without having any idea of their lives frustrates me—I could make critical tactical oversight if I don't know how these people think, what skills they might possess.

Clove's eyes are trained on the screen. I realize she's been talking while I've been worrying over my lack of knowledge. "So their training is pretty rounded. Standard stuff—bow and arrows, knives, spears."

"Yeah. I can use all those, too."

"But I'm willing to bet neither of them specialized in anything. They're well-rounded, but that's all they are."

"Whereas you have your knives." _And I have my sword. _

Clove nods. "That's how District One always does it. They go in with a variety of skills, never exceptional in any of them, and try to figure out what kind of weapons will appear in the Cornucopia based on what they see in the training center."

"So you're saying we should try to guess what kinds of weapons will show up by what's in the training center."

"As well as what type of arena we might be going through, and what obstacles might face. From what I've seen of the games, there are usually a few tributes who glean some little bit of info about their surroundings from their days in the training center. Some of them downright gloat about it once they see a camera. If we can do the same, it will give us an edge."

I nod. "And these predictions—are they just for you and I, or are we going to talk to the other Careers about them?"

I see something flicker in Clove's eyes, like the look a fox has before its teeth wrap around a chicken's neck. Her lips twitch up into a smile. "If the other tributes figure it out, let them. But we're going in with a plan."

My fork stabs into a pile of greens, as I pretend to be preoccupied with my meal. I take a moment to think about the implications of what she's said. A plan. _"If the other tributes figure it out, let them."_

Already, I can tell it's going to come down to the two of us, at the end. And that's fine by me.


	4. From Train Cars to Limousines

Chapter Four

At two-hundred miles per hour, our train takes less than an hour to reach the Capitol. We have a chance to finish eating, then discuss strategy for a bit. It's nothing I haven't heard before—the inevitable betrayals, the biggest threats. The most interesting thing that happens is broadcast on TV just as we pull into the Capitol. Some girl from District Twelve breaks free of her line and volunteers for her sister. I think maybe they've finally started training kids in the outlying districts, but when they replay the footage, the girl seems almost shocked that her younger sister has been reaped.

_Maybe she thought she was doing something gallant, _I think, biting into a roll of bread. It's fluffier than the stuff in District Two, maybe because the flour's more refined. I eat it because it's different from my usual fare, and because I might never get to taste it again.

And then I walk over to the window, because we've passed the pearl-colored gates of the Capitol, and our future sponsors are watching us come into the station. I rest my hands on the windowsill, feeling the faint vibrations of the train car. For a moment, I have to think about what kind of front I want to put up for these people—sadistic, confident, grim? All different emotions, all carrying a thousand subtle nuances that could sway sponsors one way or the other. Suddenly, I'm furious at our mentors for going back to their train car—they should be here, giving us advice on how to act.

Clove handles this better than I do. She hoists herself up onto the windowsill and leans against the window, smirking at the audience as our train rolls by. Freckled and innocuous as she appears, the cold amusement in her expression surprises me. Even though our district is notorious for training tributes ahead of time, a girl like Clove would, based solely on her physical appearance, appear as more of an intellectual.

She doesn't look like a killer. But in just a few days, she'll be one.

I realize, not for the first time, that the games have already started.

My face settles into a mask of confidence, as if I'm telling the Capitol, _Yes, I am a celebrity. You may stare. _

The train glides into the station, coasting along so that the people who have been waiting for our arrival can catch a glimpse of our faces. Most will flood the station for the rest of the day, watching all the tributes come in. In the closest spots, people have set up tents.

I step off the train, bracing myself to have heart-stopping epiphany. It doesn't come.

My eyes rove around the city, taking in everything unfamiliar. Buildings rise much higher than the two-to-three-story houses we have in District Two. They're so alien to me, in fact, that it takes me a moment to classify them as buildings. They seem almost like some force of nature, the way they rise up from the ground and scrape the sky. I can barely fathom how many people it must've taken to build these.

I begin to wonder, if District Two is one of the richest districts, why we have no such marvels.

The people are only slightly less foreign than the buildings. I've seen Capitol citizens on television, of course, but up close, some of them look more like human-animal hybrids than actual people. As we step off the train, I catch a glimpse of a woman with black spots tattooed into her skin. Wherever there aren't spots, the skin is bleached white. When I catch sight of the threadlike whiskers shooting out of her cheeks, I realize she's trying to look like a snow leopard, not an abuse victim.

Another Capitol citizen reaches webbed hands out to touch us. His whole arm is covered in a layer of shining green scales, and when I look over, I notice his tongue is forked.

I begin to think that Caesar Flickerman, with his constantly changing hair-color, is one of the most normal people in this city.

Peacekeepers are lined up to keep the Capitol citizens at bay, but the sea of people batters ceaselessly at the lines, some almost breaking through. Hundreds of them reach out to touch us, all trying to get just a little bit closer.

_Things will get easier once we're in the arena, _I tell myself. It's not that I _hate _people. I've just never been around so many of them, never been the focus of such a massive audience. I'll be a spectacle in the arena, of course, but at least I won't have so many people coming so close to me.

Enobaria and Brutus appear behind us, slipping so naturally into our space that when I see them, I almost flinch. Even over the roar of our audience, I should've been able to perceive their advance. I've been trained to be constantly aware of approaching threats.

If I cannot detect the appearance of two older tributes, how can I expect to sense an enemy coming upon me as a sleep?

"Don't smile," Brutus whispers to me. "I already know what angle the stylists are going to pick for you."

I even out the muscles in my face, letting my lips relax into a flat line under my nose. Brutus nods once in approval, then sweeps forward, making a sharp gesture with his arm. A Peacekeeper opens the door of a black limousine, and we slide inside. There's enough room in the car for all of us to slip into the back. The door closes, leaving us in relative darkness.

"The windows are tinted. You can relax," Enobaria says. I notice a slight edge to her voice that I've never noticed on TV, and wonder if it's because of her dagger-like teeth, or if some accent from one of the other districts has worn off on her. While many victors stay in their own district, some travel all over Panem.

Victors are some of the few people allowed to visit districts outside their own. Another reason I want to win.

Of course, given the choice between winning and dying, most tributes would prefer to win.

"Okay," Brutus says. "We've got a few decisions to make here. The first thing we need to know is if you two are planning to be coached separately."

I look to Clove. My height and muscle have always made me stand out. My strength has always been out in the open. I'd prefer to stick close to her during training, to see if she has any unusual skills that might come in handy, but if she prefers to be coached separately, that's her business.

Then I realize that I'm being courteous by allowing her to make that call without any input from me. Just as I'd laughed at her for doing on the train.

"Together," I say bluntly, leaving no room for argument. Clove's head whips around, but I don't look at her. Let her contest my decision. Let our mentors see whether she is argumentative or a pushover.

"Fine," she says, almost in anger.

Brutus and Enobaria exchange a look. Brutus speaks. "Okay. Anytime you want that to change, let us know." Clove nods, and I suspect she intends to change this arrangement as soon as possible.

"Once we reach our hotel, you'll be sent down to the stylists," Enobaria says. After over a decade of training tributes, the words sound almost rehearsed. "They're going to strip you down, bathe you, and dress you up in something that will get people's attention. And if you're smart, you won't contest them."

"Unless they want you to walk out there naked," Brutus adds, a strange glint in his eyes. "Then you can complain."

Enobaria goes on. "You'll take part in the tribute parade later tonight, after you've gone through the Remake Center. The stylists will probably give you something to go off of, but if nothing else, try to look fierce. The last two years have been pathetic."

I can think of nothing to say, so I nod.

"Take cues from your audience," Brutus says. "You're the second carriage out there—once everyone gets over whatever shocking outfits District One wears, they'll be looking at you. You have to make an impression, right out of gates."

Enobaria takes her turn speaking. "Hold your head high. If you have to smile, make it look like you're thinking about pushing the other tribute off the carriage. Sponsors are attracted to fierce competitors."

This goes on for several minutes, each of them giving us little snippets of advice on how we should present ourselves. They even tell us to appear solemn as we make our way from the limousine to the hotel lobby. Camera flashes blind us as we walk passed the shrubs, but no one steps onto the path. When I see one of the reporters get shoved forward and bounce back, I realize why: there's a barrier between them and us.

_So the Capitol has finally decided to give us some space, _I think. Another part of my mind supplies a different answer: _The barrier is there so we can't escape._

"That was good," Brutus says as we enter the lobby. There are no people here, and not a camera in sight. I allow myself to relax. "Very solemn. Strong, like granite."

I wonder if he makes the reference to granite because District Two's primary industry used to be mining stone for buildings. I try to recall if Brutus's family was from one of the poorer mining towns in District Two, where such references would be common, but I can't call anything back except for what I saw on TV that year.

I only have a minute to think about it, though, before our prep team descends on us.


	5. The Warrior's Uniform

Chapter Five

In a matter of minutes, I grow to hate my prep team.

"You would look just _fabulous _with pink hair," one of them says. Given the streaks of blue, purple, and green in his hair, I can't help but think he's a little biased when it comes to hair color.

"Aquarius said not to dye anything until he examines both tributes."

The rainbow-haired man rolls his mascara-framed eyes. "I'm sure Aquarius would agree with me."

"Don't presume, Antony," a third stylist says. Despite her clownish makeup, her blond hair makes her look the most normal of the three.

"Don't I get a say in this?" I ask, as Antony peels away another patch of my leg hair. Because there are no cameras in these rooms, I allow myself to wince.

"Nope," chirps the blond. "Not that you'll need to, after Aquarius gets here."

I dread the moment.

They strip off the last of my leg hair, then scrub down every inch of my body. At home, I'd be in charge of my own washing, but here, they seem intent of robbing me of even that small freedom. What's ironic is that, after cleaning every speck from my body, they intend to brush layer after layer of makeup over my face.

I wonder if all Capitol citizens are this obsessed with looks.

Suddenly, Antony breaks off from the pack, his hand flying to a buzzing box at his hip. He brings the device to his mouth and speaks into it. Between his accent and the speed of the words, I barely catch enough to realize the problem.

"Aquarius is on his way," Antony squeaked, clutching the device to his chest. His thin fingers trace the plastic, like the legs of a spider.

"Well, hurry!" the blond snaps, lifting a small brush from a bucket and scrubbing under my fingernails. By this point, I'm just glad someone else is going to be taking their place soon.

It takes about ten minutes for this legendary stylist to reach us. When he does, the others flee from the room like a flock of multicolored birds. I look up to see the man named Aquarius.

He isn't emaciated, as the members of my prep team appeared to be. His cheeks slope gently outwards, and his build is stocky. He's not fat by District Two standards, but I imagine in this city, where every extra ounce shames its owner, he's been ridiculed often enough. His hair clings close to his scalp except on the top of the head, where a rigid crest has been styled into his electric-blue hair. Despite the fact that I would've never seen such a style or color at home, he appears more normal than the majority of Capitol citizens. Maybe being sane is a requirement to become a lead stylist.

Aquarius circles me, his blue eyes probing. Automatically, I move my legs in to cover my body. I'm not completely naked—my prep team has allowed me the luxury of a towel over my most delicate parts—but all this exposed skin makes me feel vulnerable.

His voice is detached, clinical. "This, I can work with."

I tense, feeling like a horse being examined for purchase. "So?" I demand. "What are we going to do?"

Aquarius makes a clipped sound at the back of his throat, then turns to the array of cosmetics near the wall. "Well, we can start by getting rid of most of this," he says. "My prep team seems to think dressing you up like a clown will help you for the games."

My shoulders relax a little. "Good. I wouldn't have worn all that anyway."

"Which brings us to the subject of what you _should _wear. Now—" He breaks off, his eyes zeroing in on my face. I wonder, briefly, if his irises have been altered to give them that piercing blue color. "What to do, what to do . . . Something historical. Warrior's garb. You and Clove will have to match. I've already been to see her."

How comforting. But I suppose I can push Clove off the carriage if her looks force us to wear something atrocious.

Aquarius mutters to himself for a few seconds. His accent is not as pronounced as those of my prep team, but I can still hear the clipped ends of the words, the rise in his voice when he completes a sentence, as if he's asking a question. A moment later, he turns to me. His movements are quick, jerky. "I know just the thing," he says. "Simple, but refined. The Capitol citizens will get it, even if the history is lost on you."

I wish he'd explain what he's talking about so I can decide whether or not to reject his idea. Brutus and Enobaria told me to obey my stylists, but I refuse to go in front of all those people wearing something ridiculous.

Aquarius lifts a plastic device from his pocket. It's similar to the one Antony has, but a different color. From the way he speaks into it, I can only imagine it's some sort of communication device—like the phones we have in District Two, but wireless and much smaller. He mutters about special linens and silk, then demands a crown made of leaves. When he turns back to me, he's beaming. "Have you ever heard of Rome?"

"Rome?" I echo. "No."

"Well, Rome was a great city, back in history. It was rather like the Capitol in their technological feats. And they had games like ours, where people called gladiators went down into these arenas to fight each other."

"Oh." So there's a reason they do it this way.

"So I thought it would be interesting to dress you up like a Roman Gladiator, armor and all, for the tribute parade. It will show the people of the Capitol your warrior mindset."

I nod. "That doesn't sound too horrible."

"Well, of course not. I thought of it. And District Two has always had warrior-like tributes." He nods to himself, then tosses me a bundle of fabric. When I unwrap it, I find bread. "Eat before we start. You might not get another chance to eat after the parade, and you don't want to faint during the interview. I think a District Ten tribute did that, a few years ago." He frowns, trying to remember. I can barely recall the event—that tribute must've died early.

Not that District Ten has a lot of winners. They've had maybe one since I've been old enough to watch the games. Still more than Districts Eleven and Twelve, though.

I eat the bread and watch the TV in the corner as it replays highlights from the reapings. Even when they replay District Two's footage, I feel distant from the whole situation, like I'm watching a stranger with my face walk onto the stage. This stranger wears no expression, and is not exceptional, because his muscles arms are concealed under his jacket sleeves.

Stupid. I should've worn something that displayed my better characteristics, not something like this. Suddenly, I see the wisdom of my designer's idea. Surely, warrior garb was made to display physical qualities like mine.

I have to look away from the screen as my prep team reappears at the door with a plastic-covered outfit and golden armor. In less than a minute, they're all fussing over me again, stripping off what little protection I had and bringing the clothes over my body. I'm assaulted with orders to lift my arms up and hold still and push my limbs through holes. It's as if they think everyone needs help getting dressed.

Eventually, they finish, and Aquarius pulls a curtain away from the wall to reveal a full-length mirror. And even though I hated every second of the prep, I have to admire the results.

The gold chest plate fits snugly around the off-white robes, but my arms are left bare, and you can see my legs from mid-thigh down. They place a golden circlet on my head made of synthetic leaves.

"It's not a perfect representation," Aquarius says. "In fact, it's more like a hybrid of gladiator armor and a toga. But the sponsors will get it."

"Why not just have the armor?" I ask.

He runs his fingers across the electric-blue crest of his hair. "That would've been too . . . simple. This way, you'll look both regal, and like a warrior. Now—" His hands dance through the air. At the gesture, my prep team flees again. "Turn around."

Feeling like a mannequin on display, I obey. The off-white toga flutters as I move, making a sound like the flapping of birds' wings. The joints on the armor don't move as readily as I'd like them to—the shoulder joints are almost immobile, imprisoning my arms.

"Good, good," Aquarius says. I stop spinning. "I can already tell how what we're going to do with you."

I stand there, confused. Hasn't he already done all he needs to do to me?

"Caesar Flickerman will probably comment on your warrior-like appearance. Try to play up the ferocity. Gladiators were trained warriors, able to slay beasts and men alike."

Just like me. But since it's technically against the rules to train tributes beforehand, I don't say anything. Everyone can just pretend that the kids from District Two grow up playing with weapons. Besides, there's nothing less entertaining than watching a bunch of wimps run around like rodents fleeing a wildfire.

I think once again of how Clove referred to us on the train: Careers. And that's really what we are. This is our profession. A deadly one, but the pay is excellent if you survive.

"If you need inspiration, just pick a tribute you don't like and imagine how you're going to kill them," Aquarius tells me. I try to select a tribute to hate from what I've seen of the reapings, but I can't call any faces to mind except for that idiot girl from District Twelve who volunteered for her sister. _Too sentimental, _I think. _She'll probably die in the bloodbath. _

But Aquarius is waiting for some sort of reply, so I say, "Okay."

"Good. Parade lineup starts in fifteen minutes. I've already had the design team set up your chariot."

Aquarius leads me outside, where the other tributes are starting to emerge from their rooms. I recognize the girl from District Five by her red hair, and the boy from District Ten. As he walked alongside his fellow tribute, I notice a slight limp in his gait. When I look down, I notice the subtle deformation of his ankle, which moves as if it cannot remain parallel to his other foot.

_Easy targets this year, _I think, squaring my shoulders as I'm led to the elevator. Two Peacekeepers escort us to the main floor, where we walk down a hallway labeled Districts 1-4.

Clove stands at the end of the corridor. Despite my earlier judgments of her non-threatening appearance, her outfit makes her look taller and older than she is. "Took you long enough," she says.

I tilt my head up another inch and ignore her. If she's going to be so impatient, I don't need to associate with her.

We line up for the parade, right behind the tributes from District One. Both are scantily clad, their skin covered with some glittering, silver spray-paint. Supposedly, District One has the best outfits. But sometimes I think they've gone too far. I mean, honestly, they're both just a few shreds of fabric away from being naked.

Brutus's words from the limousine come back to me: _"Unless they want you to walk out there naked," _he'd said, in response to Enobaria's advice. _"Then you can complain."_

We stand there a while, as the other tributes fill in behind us. I look at Clove, wondering if I should try to make conversation now, or wait until we're back in our rooms to solidify our alliance. Or if we should just avoid each other until we get to the arena so we don't get sentimental when we have to kill each other.

"Ready?" someone asks. Clove and I both turn to see Aquarius standing at the base of our chariot.

"Ready," I say, because it's true.

Clove nods, all business. "Ready."

"Good. Remember what I told both of you, and try to give the audience a good look."

We nod. The carriage from District One starts forward, and we turn, getting ready. A moment later, the horses pulling our chariot move forward. Clove grips onto the handrail in front of us. "Nervous?" I ask, taunting her just a little bit.

"I'd be less nervous if I had my knives."

That's all she says before we break through the curtain. It makes me wonder whether she ever bothered to learn to use any other weapons.

Thousands of Capitol citizens crowd together in the grandstands, rising as they see the carriages coming forward. Cheers explode from the masses with every successive carriage. Giant TV screens display our faces close up, and I grin into a camera lens.

All the nervousness I felt at the reaping has disappeared. Now, there is only a feral gleam in my eyes. I look every bit the competitor that my trainers have sculpted me to be.

The carriage from District Ten comes through the curtains. I hear laughter behind me, and look up at the screen to see what they're wearing: cowboy suits with gold glitter.

Safe to say they aren't going to get many sponsors.

District Eleven comes through after them, their tributes dressed in green suits that give the impression of leaves. It seems like the poorer the district, the less imaginative their costumes. I refocus my attention on the platform where we will do our interviewers, wondering if there's any way I can make a grand entrance when I'm called onto stage. As I'm contemplating different ways to show my strength, a hush falls over the crowd. My body tenses under the armor, alert to the sudden shift.

Then the audience bursts into applause again, louder than before. I half-turn before I realize I only have to look at the giant screens to see what the commotion is about.

And then I'm confused, wondering how and why the tributes from District Twelve are on fire.


	6. Burning Anger, Burning Clothes

Chapter Six

Fire rises from their costumes, throwing their faces into relief. On the screens, the flames appear as a myriad of different colors—the normal reds and oranges, but also, clinging to the black fabric, an array of greens and blues. I have no doubt that the fire is synthetic—even District Twelve wouldn't be so desperate for sponsors to actually light their tributes on fire. Even so, it's real enough to get the audience going.

"Face forward," Clove whispers. I realize that, in my irritation, I've looked away from the screens and toward our competition, though they appear as no more than embers from here. I jerk my head toward the platform where we'll be interviewed, hoping both of them catch on fire for real. Two less tributes to slaughter in the bloodbath.

Another part of me hopes they live, so I can kill them both myself.

I think back to my stylist's advice: _"If you need inspiration, just pick a tribute you don't like and imagine how you're going to kill them."_

Without my permission, my lips pull up into a savage grin. Clove sneaks a glance at me. Her expression is grim. "They're holding hands," she says.

"_What_?" My head whips around, not at the screens, but back toward the tributes. And Clove's right—the tributes from District Twelve are holding hands as if they aren't being sent to the slaughter. The blond boy even has the audacity to _wave_ at the crowd, like this is some children's parade, where they throw candy into the streets. "What the hell?"

The whole parade has slowed to showcase the flaming tributes. I glare at the back of the carriage in front of us, resolving not to look back at our competition. And I'm definitely following Aquarius's advice. If I get a chance to fight those weaklings one-on-one, I'm going to give Panem a show. I can already imagine how the girl will scream as I run my sword through her bowels, and how, despite the way they hold hands now, the boy will abandon her in his flight. A twisted part of me hopes they'll survive the bloodbath so I can take my time with them.

The horses pull us along, staying close to District One's carriage. I mentally urge them to move faster, just to get District Twelve through the parade route and away from the eyes of sponsors.

"We'll smoke them in the interviews, anyway," Clove says. I rein in my irritation, focusing on the spray-painted shoulders of the girl from District One.

After what seems like hours, we reach the end of the parade line and enter a small chamber under the stage, where people flit back and forth with microphones and other equipment I only see at this time of year. A red-haired girl approaches our carriage, a tiny camera in her hands. Without consulting us, she steps up onto our carriage and snaps a picture of us. "Hey!" I yell in surprise. The girl flinches back, her lips parting.

And then I see it—the reason why she's remained mute instead of requesting permission to take our picture. It's because she has no tongue.

I know I should look away. I've seen people like this—Avoxes, they're called—on TV, always in the background. Their tongues are removed as punishment for treason and other crimes. It could be considered treason to talk to them for any reason except to give out orders. But meeting one of them in person leaves me fascinated, wondering what crime this redhead could've committed that was severe enough to merit this kind of punishment, but not deadly enough for President Snow to execute her out of hand.

"Don't stare," Clove snaps, elbowing me in the ribs. Or she would've elbowed me in the ribs, if my armor hadn't gotten in the way. As it is, I barely feel the impact. "She's just a traitor."

"Right." I turn away, allowing the Avox to move to the next carriage.

"Haven't you ever _watched_ the Hunger Games?" Clove asks, once we're alone.

"Of _course _I have." After all, it's required, and once you get used to the violence, the politics behind the tributes' actions are rather engrossing.

Clove rolls her eyes. "Are you sure? Because every time you see something even remotely interesting, you gawk at it like some District Twelve kid."

"I do _not_."

"You do. You did the same thing when I called us Careers. You should _know_ this stuff by now."

"Well, sorry if I want to see a little bit of the Capitol before I go to the arena."

She rolls her eyes. "Come on. District One is already lined up for display."

I follow her to the set of double doors where the spray-painted tributes are standing. The girl glances over at me, her blond hair twinkling from the compounded effects of the glitter and the bright light above her head. She glances up and down my armor, and her lips twitch into a smile. "My, aren't you a pretty boy?" she croons.

I can't tell if that's contempt in her voice or genuine admiration, but Capitol employees are already lining us up on the massive disk beyond the double doors. This acts as a sort of giant elevator, from which we'll rise to the stage so the cameras can pan over our faces once more before we return to the Training Center. Just like in the parade route, Clove and I follow the tributes from District One.

"You two stand right here," someone says, pulling us away. I look over to see Aquarius ushering us to a spot a few feet from the glittering tributes.

"How did you get here so fast?" I blurt out.

"Hovercraft. Only the best for District Two's stylists." He flashes a smirk, straightening our costumes before stepping off the platform. "You looked good out there."

I know he's a little biased, given that he designed our outfits, but I can't help but relax at the remark. I'll still kill the tributes from District Twelve slowly and painfully, but I can put their fiery display out of my mind.

Aquarius waves as the giant elevator ascends. A moment later, glaring yellow and blue lights inform me that we are standing in the middle of the stage, where they'll hold interviews the night before the games. The cameras pan over each of our faces, but I notice they're spending a lot of time on District Twelve's fiery attire. _Don't think about it, _I chant to myself. I take a deep breath, picturing Clove perched over the black-haired bitch, her knives bearing down on the girl's face.

My lips twitch up into a smile. As the camera flashes to me once more, I realize I look savage.

Perfect.

The audience cheers. The elevator descends. I'm still grinning when Aquarius comes by to help me out of my armor. "Your mentors are waiting in the car. You'll be taken back to the Training Center."

Clove and I are escorted to another black limousine, parked in the underground garage devoted to mentors and prep teams. Enobaria stands outside the car, hands on her hips. Her gold-tipped fangs sparkle in the piercing lights, and it takes me a moment to realize she's grinning, just like I am. "Get in the car, you two," she says. I'm so used to obeying my trainers' commands that I follow her instructions without a second thought.

"The Training Center will run practice sessions from eight in the morning until ten in the evening," Brutus says as we slide into our seats. The engine hums with life and, like a cloud drifting over the sun, we glide through the crowded parking lot. "Spend the first few hours showing off your strongest skills; you're going to need allies in the arena, and the best way to do that is to command their respect."

"And don't befriend any of the weak tributes, either," Enobaria adds. "It doesn't matter how big a splash they made at the parade—District Twelve is going to be one of the first out."

"They're worthless as allies, anyway," I say, because I can't admit, even in front of my own mentors, that their display has fazed me.

Enobaria nods. "That's right. So try to impress the tributes from Districts One and Four—they'll be the strongest. If one of the other districts comes up to you, give them a vague answer and watch to see what their skills are. Anything could happen in the arena. You won't know what kinds of dangers you'll be up against until you see the terrain."

Clove and I nod. Through the tinted windows, I see the twelve-floor Training Center peek out between two other skyscrapers. Strangely, it's one of the smaller buildings I've seen so far. But maybe that's because twelve floors is all they need to document our progress. And footage from the Training Center is sporadic, with only highlights being shown throughout the day.

"Neither of you should approach the other tributes," Brutus says. I look up, surprised. "As long as you keep your head and show your skills, they'll come to you. That's how District Two has always done it."

It seems strange, how I've never noticed this little detail. But as I page through dozens of memories, I see that he's right. District Two either picks their allies in the arena, or the other districts offer an alliance. Yet we always seem to align with the same districts—the Careers.

"At the same time, you need to make your presence known," Enobaria says. "Sit near Districts One and Four at dinner tonight. Be casual. Don't let on anything about your abilities until they see it for themselves. Try to make them laugh."

This all sounds stupid to me—as if we're part of a pageant, not a fight to the death. But our district has more winners than any other except District Four, and even if my experience from watching the games declares these recommendations pointless, it's better to follow instructions than try to find my own path.

Clove speaks. "I'd rather make them cry."

Brutus grins. Enobaria glares. I suppress a chuckle. "That'll get them laughing."

Clove's face doesn't change, but it doesn't matter. Our limousine pulls up in front of the Training Center, where two Peacekeepers are waiting to escort us inside. I slide off the leather seats, waiting for Clove to arrive at my side before moving down the sidewalk.

Just before I step inside, I catch sight of the District Twelve Tributes again. They're grinning at each other like childhood friends. Which is stupid, because even in a tiny, worthless patch of land like District Twelve, there should be too many children entering the games for the tributes to know each other well.

Yet they smile. They laugh. As if Clove and I aren't going to gut them once we get into the arena. It sickens me because, compared to most tributes, Clove and I have gotten pretty close in our hours together, and these brats from District Twelve _still _have a more solid alliance than us.

Not that they're going to live long enough for it to matter.

"Come on, Clove," I say as we step inside. "Let's go make friends."


	7. Making Friends

Chapter Seven

The first thing I learn at dinner is that the tributes from District One have excellent table manners. The second thing I learn is that Clove is a bitch.

"So, can _you _do anything useful?" she asks, staring down the female tribute from District One. From the fragments of conversation I picked up in the buffet line, I know her name is Glimmer, and her district partner is Marvel. Typical names for District One.

Glimmer's eyelids flutter, still glittering from the light dusting of makeup her prep team has left on her face. Though all of us were hosed down in the Remake Center before being brought to dinner, I can see some of the girls, at least, have gone to the trouble of making themselves presentable for the cameras. "And who might you be?" she asks Clove, staring back with unconcealed loathing.

Making alliances is going to be an uphill battle. "Her name's Clove," I say, interrupting whatever abrasive response Clove's about to give. "And she can put a knife in your back from thirty meters." I don't know if this is actually true, but her display in District Two, I believe it enough to sound sincere.

Glimmer deflates, letting her napkin settle onto her lap before daintily picking up a spoon and poking through the caramelized crust of her crème brulee. "That's nice," she says. "Let's hope for everyone else's sake that they don't have throwing knives at the Cornucopia."

I try to salvage the situation. "We want to form an alliance. We thought it was in our best interest to join up so we can pick off the weaker tributes."

Glimmer's eyebrow twitches; she returns her attention to the rich dessert in front of her. Despite her relatively thin frame, I can tell from the placidity in her motions that she's used to such fare. District One has a lot of luxuries compared to other districts, and while I don't feel inferior—I never feel inferior—I'm caught up in wondering how Glimmer's life has been different from mine.

"Why should _we _join up with _you_?" she asks, eyeing Clove with the same look Clove has been favoring her with since we sat down. I can almost see the lightning sizzle between their glares.

"Glimmer," murmurs the District One boy. It's the first word he's spoken since I overheard him in line, and already, I like him more than I like either of the girls. "Let's be civilized."

"Yes, because there's something _so _civilized about going into the wilderness to murder each other," Glimmer mutters, stabbing the tail of a shrimp and dunking it in butter.

And then Clove does something I don't expect. A giggle slips past her lips, light and high-pitched like the warble of a bird. She lifts a napkin to her lips to stifle the sound, but around it, I see her grin. "So why bother being civilized now?" she asks. "Since we're just going to gut each other once we get to arena. Unless, of course, you want me to spare you a grisly death and just stick a knife in your chest while you sleep."

I open my mouth to stop her—Brutus and Enobaria want us to make friends, not enemies. Before I can, Glimmer shoots back an almost giddy reply. "Or maybe I'll bash your skull in with a sharp rock while I'm on watch duty."

Clove struggles to suppress the laughter building at the back of her throat. "Or we can find that bitch from District Twelve and carve bloody pictures on her body with whatever sharp thing we find in the arena."

I can't decide if I should be terrified or impressed. "I like that plan," I say, expanding the conversation to include myself once again. "And so will the Gamemakers."

Marvel's eyes flash to mine, a strange look of calculation there. But he says nothing.

Dinner drags on for almost an hour. Normally, I would grab a plate of whatever nutrient-rich food my mother was cooking, shovel it down my throat, and be back in the yard with my personal trainers within twenty minutes. But here, where every conceivable dish is spread out in offering, where strategy reigns between every bite, our meals stretch out much longer. I see several kids make second, even third, trips through the buffet line, loading their plates with absurd amounts of food. I see one boy double over next to a trashcan and void his stomach, sickened by the excess and his own lack of self-control. Though the cameras don't really focus on us when we're doing mundane things like eating, I'm pretty sure this is a common occurrence for the people in the poorer districts. Unused to large meals, they overcompensate for their malnourished bodies by eating themselves sick.

If I didn't have to kill them all in a few days, I'd probably feel sorry for them. But pity is not a luxury I can afford, and it really wouldn't bode well for my half-formed alliances. I turn my face away from the puking boy and stir my pasta noodles with my fork.

By the time dinner concludes, Clove and Glimmer have exchanged so many death threats, they're each on the verge of convulsions. I try to see the humor in it. In theory, it's exciting to watch tributes rip each other apart in the most gruesome ways imaginable. Yet I don't feel giddy, like they seem to. I'm ready and I plan to take out as many tributes as I can, but I don't find it humorous. It's a means to an end. It's how I plan to get out of the arena alive.

But Glimmer and Clove are laughing about it. Marvel stares at them warily. When his eyes slide to me, I see the same bewilderment in his expression that I feel.

Even if I make it out of the arena, I'll never understand how the female mind works.

Our dinner party eventually breaks up. Clove and I head up to our floor in silence. Clove's shoulders sag as the need for conversation dies away. Her cheeks lose the subtle blush brought on by her laughter. Her lips settle into a dull, flat line. "What's wrong with _you_?" I ask.

I half-expect her to make some remark about my tone, or go off on me. But her voice is soft, almost reserved. "Which one of them do you think we'll have to kill first?"

Her question baffles me. "What does it matter?"

"We can't let them win. I'd also prefer not to have either of them place ahead of us. But if they survive the bloodbath, I think they'll be useful allies."

"Yeah, I know." We reach our floor and the glass doors slide open. We step off and start for our rooms.

"So which of them do you want to die first?"

I blink. "Do you really care?"

Her eyes flash with anger. Instantly, I'm back on familiar ground. "Cato, I hope you know how to fight, because you obviously don't understand anything else about the games."

"What the hell's your problem?" I demand.

She stalks over to her door and jams the key into the slot. "Forget it. You wouldn't understand." The door clicks open and she slips through the narrow opening. I flinch when it slams behind her.

"What the hell?" I mutter as I turn to my room and slide the key into the slot. My door pops open, and I push through, shutting it behind me.

The room I occupy is about the size of the first floor of my house. The edges of the furniture are rounded, the contrasting colors harsh even in the dim light. Beyond it all, a massive floor-to-ceiling window stretches across the opposite wall, revealing the city lights. Or at least, I think it's a window, until I realize that I'm looking at the city through the eyes of a bird. Which doesn't make sense given that this is only the second floor of a relatively small building. I stare at the window for a long moment before I realize it's a TV screen, like the ones that displayed our faces at the tribute parade. The lines are so fine and distinct, it's easy to feel like I'm actually looking down on the city. The view even shifts slightly as I draw closer to the window, the perspective adjusting to my proximity.

Clearly, the Capitol's been holding out on us.

I find a remote sitting on the arm of one of the couches and play with the buttons. When I press one of the arrows, the view on the shifts from city lights to a serene waterfall. Another tap of the button makes it change to a tropical sunset, perhaps taken from District Four. After that, there's a forest of evergreens, and a pale beach with waves lapping up at the shore. Dozens of different images, all meant to soothe. I try the other buttons and find myself reading a page offering highlights from previous Hunger Games. All the Quarter Quells are displayed in full, with hours upon hours of footage. I won't even have time to watch one all the way through before I go to the arena.

There are highlights from other Hunger Games, though. After a moment, I look up one my father has talked about, but that I haven't seen. It opens with cuts from the reapings of those games. I settle in to watch the whole thing—the highlights are only two hours, and I'll have time to watch this before going to bed—but something nags at me, like a day-old mosquito bite. It takes me a few minutes, my mind wandering despite the perfectly good carnage being displayed on the screen, to identify the source of my discomfort.

I realize I don't like the way I left my conversation with Clove tonight.

Immediately, I try to justify my response. It's poor etiquette to leave a conversation that way, especially when you're just trying to nurture an alliance. Brutus would recommend I make amends, to hold our tenuous alliance together, if nothing else.

But that's not what bothering me. In a place where I'm supposed to be contemplating the myriad ways I can kill the other tributes, I'm allowing myself to empathize with her reaction to my bluntness. I'm acting human in a game made for killers. I'm letting sympathy creep in where there should be ruthlessness.

I'm letting myself forget that I'll eventually need to stick a sword through Clove's heart.

I try to focus on the TV screen in front of me. I try not to think of the humanity my mother told me I'll lose. I try to imagine the honor in cutting down the other tributes until I'm the only one left.

When all my attempts at coldness are met with failure, I mute the television and walk over to my door. I open it, take three steps across the hall, and raise my hand to Clove's door. The door swings open just as I'm about to knock, and for a moment, Clove and I stare at each other in what is possibly the most awkward moment of my life. I lower my hand.

"Yes, Cato?" Her voice is calm, collected. As if she's above it all. But the look in her eyes belies her calm façade.

"Is it . . . Is it all right if I come in?" I ask, hating the hesitation in my voice. And just as I expected her to go off at me in the elevator, I expect her to reject my request now.

Instead, she opens her door wider and lets me in.

* * *

><p><em>Author's Notes:<em>

_This is not intended to be a Cato/Clove romance, but there may be some moments like the above that point to a deeper relationship. Make of these what you will, but please don't expect any happy endings or fairytale kisses. I'm merely trying to portray Cato's experiences in the Hunger Games._


	8. You and Me

Chapter Eight

"I checked if there was any place I could go to see the sky," Clove says as I step into her room. "But the District Twelve tributes are already on the roof, and I can't figure out how to turn this screen into a window."

The mention of District Twelve brings me right back to the tribute parade, to their pointless handholding, to their fiery entrance, to my lost sponsors . . . My fury flares, and it's all I can do to choke it back so I can respond. "That's too bad."

Clove walks over to the couch—it's identical to the oddly-shaped sofa in my room, even down to the atrocious orange color—and sits on the armrest, looking away from me. If this were the arena, it would take a lot of trust for her to turn her back on me like this, but it's forbidden to attack or kill the other tributes before the Games start. I'm not sure what the punishment is—it's never happened in my lifetime—but considering the nature of our situation, only a slow, public execution would fit the crime.

Besides, the only people I want to kill right now are those District Twelve tributes.

"So," she says. The word hangs in the air for a moment before she continues. "Why are _you _here?"

"I didn't like the way our conversation ended," I say truthfully. "It seemed prudent to patch it up."

She looks back at me. Her eyes catch the faint luminescence of her TV screen, and for a moment, they glitter like emeralds. "You came to _apologize_?"

I hesitate, irked by the implications. Then I sigh and say, "I guess."

Clove is silent for a long moment. Her face tilts down a fraction of a degree. "I never wanted to volunteer."

All I can do is stand there, frozen in shock. Clove had seemed so confident at the reaping, so self-assured and composed, I'd assumed she'd been happy to get picked. But now, as understanding dawns on me, I realize that doesn't make sense. Clove is only fifteen, sixteen at most, and of slight build. Her knife-throwing skills are exceptional, but it's the only skill she's shown me, which could mean less sophistication in other areas. And then her reaction to my words earlier—what kind of volunteer would be depressed about killing their fellow tributes?

It only makes sense if she never wanted to be a tribute in the first place.

"Who made you volunteer?" I ask.

"My mother."

I hide my surprise. Not that it's unheard of for mothers to pressure their kids to volunteer, but for me, it was always my father pushing me to learn, always my father talking about the glory of the Games. I try to imagine my mother coaching me instead, but I lose hold of the illusion almost immediately. It doesn't fit in my mind. I can't imagine my sweet, soft-spoken mother making me run drills until my knees buckle under my weight.

So I just nod as if I understand.

Clove speaks. "But I'm here now, and I'm going to win."

I say nothing. There's nothing to say except the obvious: _if you win, I die. And I have to win, too. _

The room grows quiet. After a time, she lifts the remote from the table and turns the massive television on. She flips through the images until she finds a clip of a rainstorm coming down in slow motion. Each drop hangs in the air as if suspended by an invisible thread. When they crash into the sidewalk, the raindrops break apart with majestic, rippling waves.

"Where do you think they got this footage?" Clove asks.

"What do you mean?"

"It doesn't look like it's filmed in the Capitol. For one, there isn't enough room to shoot something like this here, and for another, you can see a dirt road, near the back of the frame."

I look where she's looking and notice the rain-darkened stretch of gravel. It looks like some of the roads we have in District Two, but the strange, reddish color of the dirt makes me think it's from a different district. A district that neither of us have seen. A district one of us will never see. "Maybe you'll see it one day. If you win."

Clove's head whips around, her gaze zeroing in on my face. Instantly, my shoulders seize up as if in preparation to strike. My hands free themselves from my pockets, rising several inches before I can remind myself it's poor taste to slaughter your district partner. "If I win," she repeats. "If I win, I'm not going to waste my time exploring dirt roads, I'm going to be relaxing in District Two's Victor's Village, eating whatever I want instead of those protein shakes my mom makes me drink."

My lips curve into a grin. "Protein shakes, huh? Thought my parents were the only ones who believed in that shit."

She smiles. It's not the giddy, malicious smile she gave Glimmer, or the haughty smile she's been using on me so far. It's a nice smile. Gentle. Without a conscious thought, my legs carry me toward her. Her eyes go wide for a minute, eyebrows shooting up into her dark hair.

I pause, lifting a hand, palm out, to assure her that I mean no harm. With palpable reluctance, she relaxes. I sit next to her, staring at a spot on the floor. "We stick together," I say.

She turns toward me. In the dim light, her green eyes look almost black.

"The District Twelve tributes are putting up a united front now, but that won't mean anything once they're in the arena. The best thing to do is separate them early so the others don't form alliances against us."

Clove nods.

"What _we _do is stick together _after _the games start. We keep our core alliance, then pick off the other Careers when we get close to the end. If it comes down to it . . . we face each other as the final two."

Hope flares in her eyes. With a strange sort of desperation, she fights to keep her face empty, to keep her thoughts from me. But I already know what she's thinking: it'll be a lot easier for her to put a knife in my back than it'll be for me to get close enough to cut her with my sword.

Clove thinks I don't understand this game. Clove thinks I only get the fighting aspect of what we're getting into. Clove doesn't realize I'm planning to kill her before we reach the end.

So when I take her hand, she looks at me with a hollow hope in her eyes, and I say, "I won't let anything hurt you. It's going to be you and me, at the end."

She wants to believe me. Anyone would. Even though my guts are being shredded apart by my lie, I keep my eyes focused. Like I did when I promised my mother I'd win.

A promise I can only keep if Clove dies.

"Okay," she says thickly. "You and me."

My fingers tighten around her hand. I hope it comes off as reassuring instead of desperate.

Clove doesn't say anything for a while, but she keeps hold of my hand. After a time, she closes her eyes and her breathing slows. If I had my sword, I could kill her now. But I don't, and honestly, I think she might've snatched a steak knife from the buffet line and hidden it in her clothes. Even if I could get away with it, there would be no point to killing her. Yet.

One by one, her fingers go limp. Her lips part slightly as her face relaxes in sleep. I slide my hand out of hers and glance up at the clock. It's nearly midnight.

"Sweet dreams, Clove." _You won't have many more._

I ghost toward the door, glancing over my shoulder. I don't know what I expect, but she just remains slumped against the back of the couch, a dark curtain of hair obscuring her face. With slow, silent movements, I turn the door handle and step outside, closing the door behind me.

I walk across the hall and into my room, sliding the card key through the narrow slit. Once I'm inside, I discard my jacket and shirt and crawl into a bed three times bigger than the one I have at home. Either District Two is worse off than I thought, or the Capitol is showing off.

Maybe both.

Sleep has always come easy to me, but I'm still surprised, later, how quickly I nod off.

But of course, it's been a long day.

* * *

><p><em>Author's Notes:<em>

_Sorry about the delay and the short chapter. It's been a hectic week and I haven't been feeling very inspired lately. Updates should come faster once we get to the actual Games, since blood and death and violence are my favorite things to write about._


	9. An Offer from District Four

Chapter Nine

The steel blade flashes. The flesh resists, the sword catching on the tougher sinews as it cleaves through the rest. A deep satisfaction washes over me; my lips curl into a feral grin. The resistance—the differences in body composition—is both familiar and alien to me. Familiar because I'm used to slaughtering livestock in practice before they're shipped off to feed my district. Alien because, this time, I'm not slaughtering livestock.

These training dummies are exceptionally well-made.

It's been three hours since they explained the setup of the Training Center, three hours since they urged us to learn survival skills as well as execution methods, and my arms are finally becoming accustomed to these lightweight practice swords. They're so foreign to me—even my best sword was twice as heavy as this one, and they both cut about the same. This thin, deathly sharp blade seems almost delicate compared to what I have at home.

A dozen feet away from me, Clove stands, facing a wall of targets. In rapid succession, she throws a dozen knives(not the knives they confiscated from her in District Two, but a shiny set of Capitol knives). By the time the first one hits the target, thirty feet away, three more slice through the air. The rapid impacts sound like a muffled machine gun.

Any worries I have about her getting killed in the bloodbath fade.

I swing my sword again, fast enough to hear the wind parting with its movement. It strikes the dummy and carves a path of destruction from shoulder to thigh. The dummy's "flesh" now hangs only by a single, fibrous rope meant to simulate muscle. With another savage blow, I cut that piece and the dummy's torso falls to the floor.

I spend the next few minutes making random cuts, as if running drills with my trainers. Just keeping my strength up.

I can feel eyes on the back of my neck, but I don't look up. After years in training, I'm used to girls admiring me from afar. It's no different now, even if the reason for the stares isn't the same. If someone wants an alliance with me, they'll have to come ask for one.

It doesn't take long. Five minutes after I first feel someone watching, I hear footsteps behind me. I turn, wiping sweat from my brow.

Standing behind me is a boy with curly blond hair and pale blue eyes. A tan streak across his nose indicates plenty of time spent in the sun, which makes me think he's from one of the warmer districts. He looks about seventeen.

"Yeah?" I ask, tilting my chin up just a bit.

"My name's Jeremiah," he says. "I'm from District Four."

A Career district. My head tilts down a fraction of a degree, and I lower my sword a few inches. "Ah. So you're a fisherman."

His eyes narrow at the assumption, but he nods. "That's right."

"So what do you want, Jeremiah?"

"An alliance. For myself and my district partner, Remora. With District Two."

"Hmm."

Jeremiah falls for my feigned disinterest; he explains his reasoning. "You're both skilled with weapons. I can tell you've had at least some preparation for the Games. The same is true for my district, so we thought it would be wise to team up."

All solid reasons, I suppose. Enobaria told us to align with District Four, when they approached us, but I want to see them in action before I make any promises. "What kind of weapons are you trained in?"

"Fishing spears, tridents, nets. Stuff like that."

I hardly consider a net a weapon, but there are more important concerns. "So you'll be able to get food if the Cornucopia is bare?"

He nods. "Yes. We both can."

_Then I guess there's not much point in having _both _of you, is there? _I think. Hopefully one of them will get killed in the bloodbath. No sense having two providers when one will do. "So, do I get to see these exceptional skills before we get into the arena, or am I going to have to take your word for it?"

Jeremiah's eyes flash with something like irritation, but he really has no right to resent my request. He's the one who wants to make an alliance, after all.

Keeping eye contact with me, he walks over to one of the weapon racks and selects a trident. It reminds me of the one I saw Finnick Odair use in the Sixty-Fifth Hunger Games, but this one isn't so polished or dangerous-looking as the one Finnick's mentors sent him.

Jeremiah lines himself up with a target and hoists the trident over his shoulder. His arm shoots forward, hand releasing the trident like a javelin. I watch it fly in an arc through the room, the triple prongs burying themselves in the target a foot below the bull's-eye.

He turns back to me, his back rigid.

I arch an eyebrow, crossing my arms in front of me. It's an impressive display, if slightly inaccurate. My practice sword, however light, is a comforting weight against my hip. "I'll think about it. We can talk about it over lunch."

He nods stiffly, then turns away from me.

Not very personable, that one.

I turn back to the training dummies. The Avoxes have sent out a dozen more while I've been speaking.

I make excellent use of their gifts. By the time Clove comes up to me, fake muscles hang off the steel spine in tattered strips. "You talked to District Four?" she asks.

"I did. You?"

"The girl came up to me and asked if we should be in an alliance."

"What did you say?"

Her eyes narrow. For some reason, it's so easy to put Clove on the defensive. I didn't even mean to do it this time. That might be useful in the arena—if she's alert now, when her life's not in peril, she'll almost certainly be attentive once we're in danger—but here, all it does is tie her tongue.

The best thing I can do now is to make her trust me. A cornered animal is much more dangerous than an unsuspecting one, and I'd much rather have her relaxed when I decide to kill her. "It's okay, whatever you told her. If you don't trust them, we won't make an alliance." Because trust is such a common commodity in the Hunger Games.

"I don't like the girl," Clove says. "She talks like we should be honored she wants to align with us."

I grin. "So you don't like her because she's got bad manners?"

"I just don't like her," Clove says. A moment later, she changes the subject. "So what did _you _say to them?"

I shrugged. "I told the boy we could talk about it at lunch."

Her eyebrows come together. "That's only an hour away."

"I know." My stomach tells me that much. One of the few disadvantages of a healthy diet: you're not used to going hungry. There will, in all likelihood, be food at the Cornucopia, and if there's not, an alliance with District Four will help keep us from starving. "So we have a decision to make," I say aloud, hoping Clove is on the same page.

She nods. "District Four will be useful for fishing, but there should be food in the Cornucopia. And if worse comes to worse, I can hunt small game with my knives. We don't _need _them."

"What if we do, though? What if the arena's filled with water? They're from the fishing district; they can probably swim."

"In that case, they're a threat, not an asset."

She has a point. I turn away and let the lightweight sword cleave through another training dummy. My mind works while my body goes through the motions. "They're a threat regardless. If they're on our side, we can use them. Then, when one of us has to take watch, we cut their throats."

"And when our other allies wake up to the sound of a hovercraft, they'll know our assurances mean nothing."

"I _know_," I snap. My sword cuts through a fibrous coil of rope and sparks against the steel spine. With a decisive motion, I bring my sword around and decapitate the training dummy. "We can think of a plan once we get into the arena."

Her voice drops to a whisper. "We won't have time then. We'll be camping out with them—we talk about betraying one of them, they'll hear about it. Tributes have been killed over a lot less."

I turn. My expression must truly look dangerous, because Clove actually takes a step back. "Later," I say, struggling to reign in the fury trying to break the surface. If there is one person I can't afford to piss off, it's her. "We'll worry about it later."

Clove glances down, her teeth pressing into her lower lip. A grin crawls across her face. She speaks. "My mother always said an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure."

"That saying is older than Panem."

Her voice drops even lower, so I'm the only one close enough to hear her. "If we made an alliance with them and one of them just _happened _to get stuck with a knife in the chaos of the bloodbath . . . Well, we could almost make that look like an accident, couldn't we?"

My fury dies down a bit. I stop attacking the training dummy and turn to her. "Fine. But not both of them. They can fish for us if we run out of food, and I'd rather get killed in battle than die of starvation."

"Well, I'd rather not die at all."

Why does everything have to be an argument with her? She's three years younger than me, and she's acting like I know nothing about the Games. If she'd been from another district, I'd probably have lost my temper by now. It's only the knowledge that she's my most solid ally—only the fact that I'll die a torturous, dishonorable death if I kill her before the Games start—that holds my shaking hands at my side

So I settle for glaring. Unlike before, she doesn't turn her face from my anger. Her deep green eyes bore into mine, as if she's imagining what it'll be like to drive daggers through them. Except for my father, no one has ever remained so calm under my glare.

Her apathy eventually deflates my anger. I sigh. "Do whatever you want," I say. "I'm accepting the alliance. If you jeopardize my chances by doing something stupid in the arena, I won't take you to the end."

She smirks. "Challenge accepted. I'll make sure to be stealthy about it."

I turn away to continue practicing. Forty-five minutes pass while I channel my simmering fury through the practice sword, but by the time they call us to lunch, I've decided what I'm going to do about District Four.


	10. Tornado in Progress

Chapter Ten

After ten minutes at the lunch table, I begin to understand why Clove hates the tributes of District Four.

It's not because they're cruel—that would actually be useful in the arena. What bothers me about them is that they think they're indispensable, as if the rest of us will fall apart the moment they die because we won't have any way to get food. Ludicrous. But until we assess our food supplies in the arena, I have to hold this alliance together. If there's nothing to eat at the Cornucopia, their fishing skills might just save our lives.

Mostly, though, I try not to talk to them. Marvel, however quiet he was during dinner last night, is a better conversationalist. I spend most of lunch talking to him, trying to figure out the subtleties of his strategy. "So, you're pretty good with a spear," I say. I spent a few minutes at the spear-throwing station this morning. The two of us exchanged greetings when I left and headed for the sword rack, and I got to watch Marvel nail his target's heart from twice as far as I could.

He smiles at me, spinning his fork through a mound of spaghetti. His voice is low enough that it doesn't carry. "Yeah. My trainers thought it'd be a good weapon for me. Good upper body strength, you know." He takes a bite, then dabs at his chin with a napkin to wipe away the tomato sauce. "You're pretty good with a sword."

"Yeah," I say, trying not to grin. "My trainers thought it would be a good weapon for me. Good upper body strength, and all that."

His grin widens as I echo his words. "You're not bad with a spear, either," he adds. "You been working at this a long time?"

"A while," I say. I've been training for this since I could walk after all. My father gave me my first real sword when I was six, and he put me through lessons before any personal trainers saw potential in me. I suppose that means I owe him.

Marvel nods, growing quiet again. Beside me, Clove talks animatedly with Glimmer, discussing different ideas she's had about killing the other tributes based on the geography of the arena. Right now, Clove is describing how the blood would sink into the sand if she stabbed a tribute to death in a desert. Sometimes, she specifies which tribute she intends to kill, often making remarks about District Ten or District Twelve. But once in a while, her eyes flicker to Remora, the other half of the District Four alliance, and I can tell she's not thinking about smothering the fiery tributes that vexed her before.

Lunch passes. We return to the Training Center, riding down the glass elevators to the subterranean floor. Our alliance takes up the whole elevator, but unlike during lunch, an uneasy silence presses down us. We share bread and fill our stomachs aboveground, but as we descend, reality sweeps over us with brutal force. All but one of us has to die, and standing among the most powerful players in the Games shakes up a lot of assumptions about who that might be.

The afternoon is spent much the same as the morning. I practice with a sword for a good part of the afternoon, then switch over to the knives station, where Clove is throwing blades into targets with the precision of laser-guided missiles. I've never worked much with throwing knives before—I'm fairly adept at other long-range weapons, like spears, and those generally pack enough punch that a glancing blow will do the job. Knife-throwing, however, takes a fair amount of precision to bring down a target, and given my talent with other, more conventional weapons, I've never been drilled on this by my trainers.

I look at the knives a little doubtfully, my eyes flickering back to Clove as she launches blades toward her target. I analyze the angle of her wrists, the precise moment at which she releases the knife. Most of these are double-bladed, like the one she threw into the wall in District Two.

When she runs out of knives to throw, she pushes a button to call the target to her. As the mechanical pulleys maneuver it closer, she turns to me. "Hoping for some lessons, Cato?"

"Maybe," I allow, lounging against the wall. "Are you _giving_ lessons?"

"Maybe," she says, turning away to rip the knives from her target. As I get a closer look, I realize she wasn't aiming for a tight pattern, but to score hits on vital organs. Two knives stick out where the target's eyes would be. Three are embedded in the red square labeled as the target's heart, so close together that it would be difficult to slide a sheet of paper between them. There's one buried in the abdomen, a hefty thing I suspect is too unfamiliar in her hands to be much use to her. If I remember my anatomy sessions correctly, that knife landed in the target's liver.

"Mind if I give it a try?" I ask.

Clove steps aside without a word. Her lips twitch as if she's about to smile.

Knowing I'm about to humiliate myself, I send the target out to half the distance she was practicing at and pick one of the throwing knives from the table. I hold it just like I saw her hold hers a moment ago, but before I can even line up to aim, she interrupts. "You'll want to move your index finger further down the blade, if you're using that one. Better control."

I do as she says—this is one field where she's the expert, and I'm sadly lacking. But that's what these training days are for: learning skills you won't have an opportunity to learn while you're busy plotting ways to murder your fellow tributes.

Besides, Panem would go nuts if I were to kill Clove with throwing knives. They like competitors with a sense of humor.

I take aim, drawing on all my knowledge of spear-throwing as I line up with my target. I make several, slow movements as if I'm about to throw, just getting used to the weight of the knife. Then, with a swift, graceful motion, I let it fly.

The results are . . . less than spectacular. To my credit, the knife _does _hit the target. It just bounces off before cutting into the paper. I wince as the blade collides with the floor.

I turn to Clove, shoulders tight, waiting for her judgment. Her green eyes are far away, as if she's trying to look into the distance through a thick fog. "Not bad," she says. "Try putting a faster spin on it. You'll be more likely to stick it in the target that way."

I take a similar knife from the tray. Her fingers—delicate as silk compared to my callused hands—wrap around mine as she adjusts my grip. The knife feels slightly awkward, but I remember, however vaguely, the same sense of wrongness I felt the first time I picked up a sword. It's something you get used to, with practice.

I try again. The knife sticks, but it's so low in the target that, had it been a moving person, I would've missed.

"Try releasing it just a bit sooner," Clove suggests.

I spend almost an hour working through the techniques. Clove keeps her voice level, always picking out little things about my technique that I can improve upon. By the time the hour goes by, I'm able to score a debilitating wound. Assuming the target is standing still. And that I'm at a range where I might as well run after them with my sword. "Where did you learn to be so patient?" I ask.

Clove's face softens, her eyes becoming somehow more distant. When she doesn't answer after several seconds, I let it go.

It's not my business anyway.

After that first session at the knife-throwing station, we meet up every day, learning each other's strengths. I learn how to throw a knife with precision, and after a while, Clove admits I might actually be able to use it in the arena, if it comes down to it.

Something strange happens, during those three days in the Training Center. It's not that Clove and I are becoming friends—you can't afford friends in the Games, only allies—but we come to a sort of understanding. Since she's teaching me about throwing knives, I don't complain when she asks me to teach her how to use a sword. We're only allowed to spar the trainers they have on sight, but I show her some moves and critique her as she imitates them. Her small stature means she'll probably never have much use for sword training. More often than not, killing something with a sword depends on raw power more than careful technique. But then again, if I get killed and she's one of the last left standing, it might be wise for her to pick up a weapon she doesn't have to throw away.

The meals pass much the same as they did before. Clove shuns Remora and Jeremiah from District Four, but talks animatedly to Glimmer over steaming plates of lobster and cloyingly sweet crème brulee. Sometimes, their topics stray to more mundane things than killing people—things like how the sunset bleeds into the clouds as it settles near the horizon, or how Clove used to sneak away from her house and practice throwing knives near a stream by her village.

There's only one time when the chatter between Clove and Glimmer cuts off, and it's when Glimmer asks about her family.

"My mother trained me for the Games," Clove says shortly. "My father divorced her when I was ten. I have a younger sister."

The last two pieces are news to me, but apparently, it matters to Glimmer because she ignores the terseness of Clove's response and presses on.

"What's your sister like?"

Clove's eyes flicker up to Glimmer's face, her gaze sharp enough to bore holes through steel armor. "She's normal, I guess." Clove looks intensely at her baked potato, stabbing her fork through the dirt-colored skin.

It doesn't help matters when Remora opens her mouth. "I bet she's the favorite daughter, isn't she? Always spoiled, always gets what she wants."

"No," Clove snaps, glaring at her carrots as she smashes them under her fork.

"That's enough," I say, because I'm her district partner, and I'm obligated to defend her until I stick a sword through her heart.

"I bet that's it, isn't it," Remora goes on, her voice rising in pitch as if she thinks she's stumbled across something remarkable. "You're jealous of your little sister, so you volunteered for the Games hoping to gain your parents' respect."

"That's not the reason."

Remora scoffs, tilting her head back and grinning. "Whatever you say, little girl."

And I thought I was arrogant.

The last jab hits Clove harder than I expect. She shoots up from her seat, knocking her chair back. It clatters to the ground, loud enough to make Glimmer squeal in surprise. Clove's hands slam down on the table, but she doesn't say a word. Her lower lip trembles, and for one awful second, I think she's going to cry.

But she doesn't. She throws back her head and laughs. "At least my parents cared enough to teach me _manners_," she says. "I'd hate to see what goes on in _your _house."

Remora rises from her chair, face burning with anger. "You little troll."

A grin splits Clove's face, making her look almost feral. Remora throws her a look so full of menace, I jump to my feet. My response makes Jeremiah stand, and within seconds, our whole table is on their feet, claws out.

Peacekeepers swarm into the room from doors I hadn't even noticed until now. Within seconds, they're standing between every one of us, blocking our paths to each other. "All right, break it up!" one of them commands. Remora throws the man a withering look and slides back a step, tilting her head back until it looks like she's staring at the ceiling.

"Well," she says. "I won't have any part in this farce. I'm going up to my room." She flounces off, leaving the rest of us behind. I jerk my arm away from the Peacekeeper latching onto me, annoyed. We're supposed to save the fighting for the arena. It looks bad to be caught at it now.

Clove wriggles free of the group, strands of loose hair sticking up from her head like strange antennae. Her gaze finds mine. All traces of amusement have vanished from her face. In the fluorescents, her eyes shimmer with nascent tears.

She rips her gaze away from mine and stalks past me, heading for the elevator. By the time I'm able to process her near-breakdown, she's shooting up to the second floor.

I can't help but feel a little bit like I've witnessed a tornado in progress.


	11. Ways to Avoid Dying

Chapter Eleven

I try checking in on Clove after dinner ends, but she doesn't open her door. In fact, there's no indication that she's inside, not even the faintest whisper of a footstep over plush carpet.

I let it go, opening my door and stepping inside. I intend to get a solid ten hours of sleep before I have to get prepped for the interviews tomorrow. Before I can take three steps into my room, I sense something _off_ about it, as if I've somehow wandered into a stranger's room that looks identical to mine.

Which, in a building where all tributes are treated equally, is quite possible. Assuming my card key only works for the correct room, however, means there's something else messing with my intuition.

Before I can think further than that, an arm wraps around my neck and yanks me back, turning me around and pinning me to the wall. My arms go rigid, my first instinct to try and pull free, but my captor's got me pinned perfectly. "What the hell?" I shout, as my door slides shut.

Enobaria hisses into my ear. "Too slow."

This time, when I struggle, she lets me go. I whirl, fingernails biting into my palm. "What are you _doing_?" I demand. Enobaria raises an eyebrow; her lips curl into a smile, showing her gold-tipped teeth.

"That was a test," comes another voice, this one a deep tenor. Brutus. "You failed."

"What did I fail?" I snarl, only realizing his intention after I ask.

"You let your guard down and failed to react to the danger in time. If you'd been in the arena, you'd be dead by now."

Fury coils in my throat; I swallow it back. "I won't let my guard down in the arena."

Enobaria walks backwards and plops onto the arm of the couch. Her dark eyes never leave my face, but there's a look of amusement there, of contempt, and even though it's forbidden to fight before the Games, I want to knock her sharp teeth out of her head.

"How long do you think it takes to kill another tribute?" she asks. Her voice drips with false cheer.

Brutus answers before I can. "Less than the time it takes to snap your fingers." He snaps, and I wonder if years of working together have made their brains sync up, or if they've rehearsed this particular speech so much, it's automatic.

"A second to die if you snap someone's neck," Enobaria says. "A minute or two if you stab them in the heart."

"An hour if you nick the artery in their arm or leg," Brutus adds, rising from the couch.

"A day or two if you get them through the gut."

"And a little longer for wounds that become infected."

"So what, do you suppose, is the best way to kill an enemy?"

I look between them, my lip still curled in a snarl. "The quickest way," I answer. _Or the slowest and most painful. _

"Wrong," Enobaria says, kicking one foot into the air and resting it on the back of the couch. She studies her toenails for a moment, the amusement bleeding out of her face and leaving something cold and disturbing behind.

"Then what the hell was the speech for?" My frustration builds, and I have to force myself to remain rational, to hold my temper. _It's not worth it, _I chant. _When I win, I'll be rich and famous. I can't get into trouble now. _

Brutus's face has gone just as cold as Enobaria's. "The answer, Cato, is to kill them however you can, whenever you can."

"I know that."

"You know, but do you understand?"

I stalk past the couch, closing in on the screen I'd wrongly assumed to be a window the first night I'd been here.

Because they are my mentors, and because they control when my lifesaving sponsor gifts arrive, I maintain my self-control. Barely. "Understand what?"

Enobaria looks at me. "You're acting in front of a massive audience. All of Panem, in case you didn't realize. Your district, as well as many Capitol citizens, will be throwing money at us to sponsor you. _If _you promise them a show."

"I'll give them a show."

"Then let them know that. Strike up a few personal vendettas in the arena. Make sure the audience knows who you're targeting and why. Make sure to mention how brutally you intend to kill them, how long you'll let them linger before you show mercy. You will be on camera every minute, and if you want to come out alive, you need to convince both your allies and your audience that you are to be feared. Understand?"

"Yeah, I got it."

"Good," Brutus says. "We'll discuss specific strategies tomorrow, before the interviews, but we want you to keep that in mind. Panem lives for violence. The best way to stay ahead is to give it to them."

_Oh, I intend to, _I think.

Brutus and Enobaria abandon the couch and walk over to the door. As they're leaving, Enobaria turns back to me. "Try not to die. It's not cost effective for us if you die."

And with that, the door closes behind her.

I stand there for a few minutes, wondering what they plan to say before the interviews tomorrow, if they haven't said everything already. Then, deciding there's no point in worrying about it, I kick off my shoes and strip down to my underwear to crawl into bed.

My dreams are full of blood and death, which I suppose is to be expected, but there's one little scene that plays over and over again, writ bold in my mind. I'm in the arena. The scenery changes—tundra to desert, swamp to prairie, forest to wasteland—but there's one recurring element, one thing I simply can't expel from my subconscious: fear.

Not fear of losing honor, nor fear that I might have to suffer to gain it. This is a primal fear for survival, a frantic flight from death. And in my dreams, I'm running, legs driving me forward even as claws and teeth and blades bite at my back.

I never see what's chasing me, or who. I always wake up before my mind drives me to check. All I know is that something's chasing me, and no matter how fast I run, I can't get away.

Seven. That's how many times I wake up in the night, a breath away from screaming.

Morning comes, spilling into the room in the form of artificial light. According to what I've heard around the dinner table, our bedroom lights are supposed to mimic natural light patterns so well as to be unnoticeable. But I _do_ notice, and the lack of real sunlight makes me feel like a caged muttation, waiting to be sent into the arena to murder viciously, without restraint. I want to go up to the roof, as Clove wanted to that first night, but by the time I'm done with my shower—and _damn_, they have good showers here—I'm already running late for breakfast.

Enobaria and Brutus decide to join us today, getting a jumpstart on our preparations. Since Clove and I agreed to train together, they make a point of tending to each of us equally. No holding back, no making guesses about which of us is more likely to survive the coming battles, no indication that either of us is expendable. Is it years of practice that allow them to be so clinical and unconcerned, or are they betting we both have a good shot to make it to the end?

I don't know. Moreover, I don't really care, so long as I live the longest. Clove is a means to an end, an ally I can use, and perhaps, in a better world, someone I could be friends with, but I'd choose my life over hers every time.

"Cato, I want you to play up your raw strength at the interview," Brutus says, pointing his fork in my direction. Half a lettuce leaf is speared on the end, a drop of dressing clinging to the edge. His head turns a fraction of a degree to look at Clove. "_You _will play up your viciousness and cunning, since you're too small to look as strong as Cato. But you two won't make any comments about your alliances, got it? If members of your alliance get killed in the bloodbath—and they _will_—it would look bad for you if you were relying on their skills. Don't even mention your alliance with each other. Got it?"

We nod.

"Get weapons first," Enobaria says. "If you've got weapons, you can track down any enemies that make off with food and steal it from their corpses."

_What a pleasant image. _Of course, one would expect nothing less from Enobaria.

"Got it," I say through a mouthful of sesame chicken.

Brutus speaks. "The bloodbath could last anywhere from a few minutes to a few hours, depending on how everything goes down. You _stay _there. The Cornucopia functions as a reference point for everyone in the arena. They'll see you, but they'll probably have to stay close." He leans forward, and his voice drops low. "The Gamemakers like to put all the major resources near the Cornucopia. The weapons and medicine, of course, but also a source of water, and decent shelter. They want to have a central area for tributes to fight, and that's usually it. The Games must never become boring. Give them a show, and the Gamemakers will be merciful to you. Mostly."

_Because there's nothing more tragic than a fan-favorite dying in a not-so-natural disaster, _I think, stabbing another piece of meat.

The other tributes start filing in then. Glimmer and Marvel arrive first, then linger in the doorway, watching us closely. When I look in their direction, our mentors' eyes slide over to them.

Brutus offers us one more shred of advice before he leaves us to our meal. "Turn on your allies before all your enemies are gone. They won't be expecting it that early."

My eyes flicker to Clove, then away.

Clove turns to me, her green eyes unreadable. Almost as if she read my thoughts. "So," she says, picking at her sweet corn. "We've got our private sessions with the Gamemakers later this morning."

"Yeah," I say.

"You know what you're going to do?"

"Of course. You?"

She shrugs. "Same thing I've been doing."

"What do you think you'll get?"

"A nine or a ten. You?"

"Same." _Maybe an eleven. _

Glimmer and Marvel sit down across from us. Rather than joining us as they have been, the District Four tributes, Jeremiah and Remora, sit across the dining hall and eat by themselves.

I want to smile; like Clove, I'm really starting to hate District Four. Yet they're still part of our alliance, so I keep the joy off my face and my eyes on my plate.

Breakfast is a somber event today. We're all thinking about our private sessions, or the interviews to follow. We're all thinking of ways to appear desirable to our sponsors.

We're all thinking of ways to avoid dying.


	12. Katniss Everdeen: Eleven

Chapter Twelve

I stand outside the elevator doors. The clock _ticks_, signaling the passage of time, but every second seems delayed. Time is moving slowly for me.

On the final day of preparation, the Gamemakers hold private sessions to gauge our probability of surviving. Tributes are scored on a scale of one to twelve, with a one being attainable by someone in a coma, and a twelve being attainable only by a god. I'm hoping for a ten or eleven, which would be above average even for a Career tribute. A high score will draw attention and, if I'm lucky, sponsors.

They've already called Marvel and Glimmer in for their private sessions, and neither of them have returned. So far, it's been a little over half an hour since the sessions started—Career tributes usually take the longest, showcasing a broader range of skills than some of the other tributes. At least, that's what I've gleaned from the various literature and post-Games footage. The Capitol doesn't release videos of the training sessions until after the Games, in order to avoid skewing the betting odds and to stop potential leaks to the tributes about their opponent's skills, but my father once pointed out the trend, trying to motivate me to develop a wide range of skills so I can look good for the Gamemakers.

"Clove Attila," calls one of the Peacekeepers, as the elevator doors part. Clove rises from her chair and starts toward the elevator. The Training Center has been blocked off today for the private sessions, so everyone's just hanging out in the dining room. But it's quiet. Any lighthearted chatter between alliances has dissolved. The exception is District Twelve. The two of them smile and laugh at each other's jokes, their voices rising above the dining hall in a persistent, annoying warble.

In fact, their chatter is so constant and lighthearted that it gives me pause. Why are they acting like this? Surely they must realize how dismal their chances are, so why laugh about it? Is it their way of coping with their imminent deaths?

But . . . no. Now that I'm listening, I realize they aren't making jokes. Not really, because there are no punch lines, and even the lead-up isn't funny. The whole thing is actually quite awkward.

"So I was decorating this cake for a wedding that was going to happen in _two _hours, and right at that moment, the decorating tip falls _off _the frosting bag, and pink icing shoots all over the cake."

The girl—the one who wore a flaming suit during the tribute parade—cackles like a hyena, tilting her head back and pasting a smile across her face. I actually wince at how false her laughter sounds. How has no one else noticed this? Is everyone so nervous about their upcoming sessions that they're blind to the farce playing out in front of them? It's so sickeningly cheerful, it has to be an act.

I watch them a while longer, trying to identify the purpose behind their forced cheer. When I hear the Peacekeepers calling my name, I stand, shoving my curiosity as far away from my mind as possible. Why should I care what the other tributes are playing at? I'm going to win anyway—it's practically a foregone conclusion.

The elevator doors close behind me, finally cutting off their chatter. The quiet is a balm to my eardrums. The almost inaudible glide of steel against steel as the elevator descends soothes me, like a mother's hum soothes her baby. For the first time in days, my head's not occupied with trivial things such as being late for breakfast or pleasing my alliance. For the first time in days, everything is about me, about how I'm going to perform. Not about Clove, or the rest of my allies, or my enemies.

Just me.

The elevator door slides open. I walk out, head high, and bow to the Gamemakers. They're perched on a platform above the training area. I've seen some of them come and go throughout the past few days, but always in twos and threes, never all at once. I wonder what they do when they're not watching us train? Do they refine details of the arena? Chat about our prowess and our shortcomings? Make bets between themselves on who's going to come out of the arena alive and who's going to die on day one?

I don't know, and, once my curiosity has passed, I don't care. They gesture for me to get on with it, so I walk over to one of the weapon racks and pick up the sword I've been using the past few days. I give it a few more practice swings, warming up, then walk over to the line of training dummies that have been left out for me. Since I've got the whole room to myself, I spread them out, arranging them in a seemingly random pattern. All the while, I'm thinking, lining up the attacks in my head. I won't have the luxury of perfectly placed enemies in the arena, but I have it here, and if I can give the Gamemakers the illusion that I'm prepared to face off against multiple enemies at once, that only bodes well for my score.

Once all the dummies are in place, I return to what I've imagined as my starting point. I take a deep breath—my trainers have spent years teaching me how to breathe properly, even in the heat of battle—and dart forward.

My sword lodges in the first dummy, spearing it right through its unmarked heart. I rip it out and bring it around, decapitating the bizarrely realistic doll before turning on my heel and attacking the next. The tip of the blade pierces this one's eye—a fatal shot.

As I move, I realize I'm not showcasing my strength so much as my precision. More, it surprises me _how _precise I am. Swordplay is generally considered a brutish sport, however useful it is in the Games. But this blade is so light, so agile in my hands, that it seems wrong to simply hack away at the targets as I'd initially intended.

My body adjusts, my steps becoming light, dance-like. For a moment, I actually imagine myself as Clove, imagine the way she would compensate for her lack of brute strength through precision, were she in my position. Knife-throwing is precise, artful. So is Clove.

In that moment, so am I. Rather than ripping through the next dummy, I pierce it where its heart would be, then go for a second, accurate shot to its carotid artery. Every anatomy lesson I've ever had returns to me as I move. Femoral artery. Brachial artery. Carotid artery and jugular vein. Pulmonary artery and pulmonary vein. Aorta—a dissecting aorta can kill in seconds, and even a tiny nick on the side is sufficient to fell an opponent in minutes. I score a direct hit, sliding the blade neatly into the dummy's chest and moving on because there's no point in hacking away at an enemy who's already going to die.

My sword pierces the final dummy's heart. Artificial muscles spill out onto the floor as I withdraw my sword.

The sound of applause echoes through the vast room, coming from above. A grin crosses my face. I've proven I have technique—now to prove I can tip the scales with physical strength as well.

I turn around, going through my course in reverse. With barely a glance, I decapitate the nearest dummy. Its head, heavy with a fake skull and muscle, tumbles to the ground. Impulsively, I kick it out of the way.

I am savage. I am unbeatable. I burn hotter than the District Twelve tributes did at the parade, but I'm still cold-blooded.

The second run through my course takes longer—I linger, slicing up my inanimate opponents in what would've been the bloodiest deaths, if the dummies had actually been filled with blood. It's a pity they aren't, but I guess if the janitors had to mop up blood after every session, this whole thing would take a lot longer.

I pause a moment as I reach the final dummy, trying to think of how to proceed. The rest are ravaged beyond recognition, so it'll be hard to give a grand finale, no matter how deeply I cut this one. But the subconscious part of my brain is working for me, having fallen into fight mode minutes ago, as soon as I started my second pass. My leg shoots out, heel slamming into the center of the dummy's chest. Despite its reinforced iron spine, the whole apparatus falls backward. I follow it down, gripping the hilt of my sword tighter than ever before. My free hand moves to pin the dummy to the ground, as if it were a live opponent.

Faces flash through my mind, printed over the dummy's featureless face. I see Clove, glaring up at me, lips twisted in a scowl. I see both tributes from District Twelve, mouths open in a scream. I see Remora, looking as smug as ever.

I thrust the sword through her heart—through all their hearts—without regret.

A cheer rises from the Gamemakers' table. I grin widely, shoving myself back to my feet. Coils of reinforced rope spill out from the hole in the dummy's chest, like intestines spilling out of a competitor's body.

I look to the Gamemakers, see them smiling back at me, and take a bow.

"Well done!" one of them calls. He's got a beard that wraps around his jaw and up the sides of his face, but he's shaven certain sections in the shape of geometric patterns.

Even after I win, it'll take years to understand these Capitol people.

"Excellent show," says another. "You may go now."

I blink rapidly; I never realized the private sessions went by so quickly. Or maybe my sense of time is just skewed because, instead of waiting around as I have been, I've actually been in here, occupied. Or maybe the long time between tributes is used for cleaning up the training area.

_Or, _I think as I step into the elevator and shoot up to the second floor. _maybe that's all it took for them to realize I'm going to have no problem winning this. _

I step out of the elevator, surprised to find Brutus and Enobaria waiting for me. "Well?" Enobaria asks, when I just stand there. "How did it go?"

My smirk must answer for me, because Brutus gives me a pat on the shoulder. "Looks like we've got some celebrating to do."

I follow them to the dining area reserved for Clove and I. Usually, we eat downstairs for every meal, so as to foster our alliances as much as possible. Not all the tributes do this—a little over half stay on their own level and eat on their own or with their district partner, but Brutus and Enobaria have been pushing us to interact with the other Career tributes, and so we've made little use of our personal dining area.

It's nice, but more comfortable than the dining hall on the main level. My mentors sit down in what I presume to be their usual seats, then order the Avoxes to bring them something from the kitchens. Half of them scatter, like cockroaches fleeing from the light, while the other half orient themselves around the room so they're spaced evenly from each other.

"You showed them your swordplay?" Brutus verifies, arching an eyebrow.

I nod. "Both precision and strength."

"Good. Balance is essential."

The food arrives in minutes, and I revel in the chance to eat without having any other tributes nearby. It's pretty much the first time that's happened since my last meal at the house, with my mother.

I remember it perfectly—steak, cooked to a perfect medium-rare so it just barely oozed blood onto the plate. Beside it, an exotic savory sauce only available in District Two right around the time of the Reaping. It's different from the usual steak sauce, but higher quality.

Steak. My last meal at home. Simple, but elegant. Not as elegant as the elaborate dishes being set out in front of me, but still.

_Was that my last meal from District Two? _I wonder, my fork hovering over a piece of marinated pork.

"Clove should be finishing up soon," Enobaria says. Without another word, both my mentors stand up and head back for the elevator, leaving me alone.

They don't return right away, and I keep on eating. After I've stuffed myself full of shish kebabs and pork, I abandon the table and head over to the massive screen that takes the place of a window. I flip through the channels, then settle on watching highlights from the fifty-second Hunger Games. My father has always told me that was a brutal one.

Finally, Clove returns. I can tell from her smile that her session went just as well as mine. "What do you think you got?" I ask as she settles on the other side of the couch with a plate of shish kebabs.

"A nine or a ten. The Gamemakers seemed impressed."

I nod. "You just do knife-throwing?"

"Knife-throwing, a little swordplay, archery. I didn't do well on the archery, actually." Her expression darkens a bit. "But I saved the knife-throwing for last so it would stick in their minds."

Versatility followed by a grand finale. Not a bad route to take.

We wait, watching the highlights with the same fascination we watch more current Hunger Games with. Halfway through, the screen cuts to Caesar Flickerman, sitting behind his viewing desk as he has every single year for the past twenty-four years. They retire their cast of speakers after every Quarter Quell, to switch it up for the audience, and next year will be Caesar's last. I actually regret this for a moment—while he's surely made enough money from the Games to live rich in the Capitol for the rest of his days, he'll be losing his job soon. From how successful he is in his career, I can only assume he'll mourn its loss.

"The scores have just come in and the betting will start in just a few minutes, so let's get to it." Caesar gestures to a window floating on the screen just to the left of his head. It expands, taking up the whole screen and showing each individual tribute.

Marvel is first. They display his picture, playing fast-paced background music, like he's a superhero. He pulls an impressive nine, which takes some of the weight off my shoulders.

Next is Glimmer. I can tell they've taken a shot of her from the parade, because there's still silver glitter plastered to the sides of her face. The number eight flashes on the screen below her name, earning a smile from Clove. Eight is pretty good as far as scores go.

Then it's my turn. I recognize the golden armor they put me in before the parade and grin—this must be that picture that the Avox took of me when I got off my chariot. The background music rises in a crescendo, reaching a peak when my score flashes along the bottom of the screen.

It's a ten.

"That's what I'm talking about!" I yell, thrusting my fist in the air. Brutus pats me hard on the shoulders. When Clove appears with a matching ten, cheers erupt in our little suite.

"Knew we'd be the best," I say, scarcely aware of the matching eights the District Four tributes get. The most I feel for them in that moment is a petty joy for seeing they scored lower than we did.

Serves them right.

They keep going through the scores, but I'm not paying attention. It's not until Clove elbows me in the ribs that I finally look back at the screen.

I see the District Twelve female posted on the screen, haloed in flame as she was at the parade. But that's not what catches my attention. It's her score, flashing in gold print below her name.

Katniss Everdeen: eleven.


	13. Arguing in a Limousine

Chapter Thirteen

All I can think is how long I'm going to spend carving her up before I kill her.

"Cato, stop pacing. It's not that big a deal."

"Of _course _it's a big deal," I snarl. "That _bitch _is stealing our sponsors from right under our noses. I mean, what did she do that was so damn remarkable for her to get an eleven?"

Clove sighs, crossing her arms in front of her chest and sinking into the couch cushions. Curled up like that, she looks so small, not at all like the confident, knife-wielding tribute I met in District Two. It jolts me out of my fury long enough for Brutus to interrupt.

"You've still got the interviews. As long as you don't choke on your own tongue, you'll be able to assure your audience that you're still the favorite to win. Don't lose your head over this. She's from District Twelve; she doesn't stand a chance."

A snarl rises to my lips, and this time I can't bite it back. I stalk over to the door and march down the hallway leading to my bedroom. Enobaria yells from behind me. "Don't forget, you've got an interview tonight. Be downstairs by five so we can send you to the Remake Center."

I haven't forgotten, but what I'll have to do for the interview is pretty obvious. My strength and skill will carry me through any questions Caesar Flickerman asks, and I can feign secrecy for any questions regarding my strategy in the Games. The door hisses shut behind me, and I bark out an order to the voice-recognition software to lock it. I hear the gears slide shut, embedding themselves into their slots and keeping everyone else at bay. I'm sure Peacekeepers could still get in—it occurs to me that tributes have tried locking themselves in their rooms before, in a futile attempt to extricate themselves from the situation, but the people running this show wouldn't be stupid enough to ignore basic security.

I order the lights off. In the dark, I stumble through the room, tripping over the edge of the platform separating the sleeping area from the living area. I throw myself on top of the plush double-bed, wondering how much trouble I'd get in if I took a blade to the mattress.

_Katniss Everdeen: eleven. _All she's done in training is learn some traps and study camouflage, yet she got an _eleven?_ I've heard of tributes saving their best skills for the private sessions, but unless she can fly, I can't think of anything so remarkable that could've netted her an eleven when _my _swordplay got a ten. There have been exactly four people who've managed a score of eleven since the Capitol repealed the law that prohibited betting. Only one of those tributes has actually gone on to win the Games, but it still rankles that some half-starved savage from District Twelve outshined me.

"You'd better survive the bloodbath, Fire Girl," I mutter, pressing my forehead into the sleek pillowcase. "I want to take my time killing you."

Time passes as I consider the myriad ways of doing so. If she's going to have such a memorable score, I'll make sure she gets a memorable death.

After about an hour, I hear a knock at my door. It's Clove. "Brutus and Enobaria are giving advice for the interviews, if you want to go."

I don't answer. I don't really want to talk to anyone right now. In fact, if it wasn't required of me, I wouldn't even _go _to the damn interview. Haven't I done enough? Isn't it obvious how strong I am, how I intend to wipe out my competition? Haven't I been paraded around enough already?

"Well, _I'm _going," Clove says. I can almost see her, standing outside my door, hands on her hips, a scowl on her face. A dark chuckle escapes my lips, too quiet for her to hear beyond the door.

It's quiet for a while, so I suppose she's gone.

More time passes. After a while, I start keeping tabs on the clock. I really can't miss the interviews, even if they're a waste of time. People are going to sponsor me no matter what I say, but only if I show up and act like a good little tribute.

Damn. Today really sucks.

The minutes glide by, much faster than I want them to. Fifteen minutes before five, I crawl out of bed and head downstairs where my mentors are waiting.

Clove has already had a few hours with the stylists. Her dark green eyes are framed with eye shadow, and her face has been painted porcelain, so she looks more like a living dull than a human. A bright orange dress clings to her slight frame, the top resembling a bed of burning coals. It reminds me, vaguely, of the outfits the District Twelve tributes wore in the opening parade. They outshined us there, too.

That'll make killing them even sweeter than I've imagined.

"Nice of you to show up," she mutters as Antony takes her hair and brushes it back. She doesn't even flinch.

"I thought we were going to the Remake Center. Why are you already dressed?"

She rolls her eyes. "Our mentors said I had enough poise to get me through the interview without a full lesson, so they called our prep team out here early."

"And clearly, you need it."

I glance up to see Aquarius, our lead stylist. His electric blue hair has been shaped into spikes, the tips bleached pale yellow. My eyebrows slant downward. Last time the prep team appeared, I spent hours getting scrubbed and waxed to prepare for the tribute parade. I refuse to be subjected to that again. "If you're going to scrub me down—"

"No." Aquarius steps forward and lifts one hand to my chin, tilting my head up so I have to strain my eyes to look down at him. Without releasing me, he addresses his prep team. "Claudine, I want you on makeup. Smooth everything out. It's going to take a lot to make him look good in front of the camera. Antony, you're in charge of getting him dressed." Aquarius turns back to me. "Don't be stubborn about this. I've been a stylist for the Games for over a decade now, and if you want to avoid making a fool of yourself, you'll do as I say."

"You're not my father!" I shout, because he's acting like it.

"No, but your father's not here. In fact, you can assume your father has already adjusted to the fact that you're more likely to die than to win the Games, so forget him. I am your lifeline tonight, and your mentors are your lifeline in the Games. Now get in the limo."

"Bastard . . ." I mutter as I step out onto the sidewalk. I can almost feel the energy pouring off the force fields as people edge forward to get a closer look. There's a limousine waiting on the edge of the street, labeled with my district number. As I approach, an Avox opens the door for me.

I consider shoving him onto the pavement, then decide against it. I'd rather be dropped into the arena right now than spend another minute in the Capitol. I get into the limo, pick the seat closest to the window, and glare at my prep team as they shuffle into their spots. Clove is one of the last inside, followed by our mentors, and then we're off, everyone chattering about their unholy intentions for my prep time.

"Just tune them out," Clove mutters as we glide over the pavement. "It's nothing too horrible."

"Says a girl who's probably been wearing makeup since her first Reaping."

"My family couldn't afford makeup _except _for the Reapings."

I glance over to see her scowling. "What? I thought you were—"

"A Career tribute, yes. But that's all I am. Why do you think I specialize in only one type of weapon? I can't afford a whole array of weapons. There's no money to buy makeup in my house. We could barely afford warm bathwater."

Somehow, this leeches the fury right out of me. "Oh."

"Yeah. So I have to win these Games. My family won't survive if I don't."

I'd like to point out that her death would also ease the burden on her family's financial situation, since they'll have one less mouth to feed, but saying so would be unnecessarily cruel, so I keep my mouth shut. "I'm sorry to hear that," I say instead. "But I'm going to win."

"Thought we were on the same team."

"We are."

"Cato, why are you such a jerk?"

Apparently, keeping my mouth shut isn't an effective means of avoiding confrontation. "Why are _you _so defensive?"

"Enough!" Brutus explodes from the other side of the limo. We both freeze. "Win the Games or don't. Stop worrying about each other and focus on who you're going to kill outside of your alliance."

I sink back into my seat. "Whatever."

"And learn some tact," Brutus adds, on the razor's edge of losing his temper. "You'll need it for the interviews."

The rest of the ride is quiet. If there's a positive side Brutus's reaction, it's that it shut our prep team up. They're all cowering on the other side of the limo, watching me like I'm going to run them through with a sword. Which I want to.

We arrive at the Remake Center, shuffle past the lobby and into the elevator, and descend until we reach the area with the blackout tents where they prepped us for the parade. Clove and I split up, going to our separate tents. The Capitol has no problem sending us to an arena to kill each other, but they certainly don't want to compromise our modesty.

Claudine goes straight to work applying various creams and cover-ups to my face and neck, explaining what each does and why she has to apply so much makeup because of the cameras. When Antony interrupts her fussing to bring me my outfit, I'm grateful for the distraction.

It's not a bad outfit. In fact, I like it better than I liked the gladiator outfits we wore at the parade. It's simple: a white shirt overlaid by a black leather jacket, coupled with black pants. "Aquarius wanted to try the bad boy look for you," Antony says. I'm just glad they've finally designed something sensible.

Once I'm dressed, Claudine pops in to do a final round of makeup. She complains about how I've smeared some product while I was dressing, and I wonder how that's possible. Obviously, with Antony dressing me, it's not my fault the makeup was smeared.

"It's perfect," Claudine says, stepping back to admire her handiwork. "Now don't touch your face or your neck for the next three hours. We want you to stay looking _splendid_."

I don't know what horrifies me more: that I can't touch my own face, or that this isn't the first time I've heard the word "splendid" tonight.

They usher me out of the tent and into another limousine, where Clove is waiting. In the time it's taken me to get dressed and smeared with makeup, her stylists have coiled her hair into an elaborate bun, making her look like a princess. She's cordial when I get into the limo, which makes me think one of our mentors said something to her after our conversation. We don't speak during the ride. This journey is even shorter than the one between the Training Center and the Remake Center, so we don't have the opportunity to get into another argument.

Our escort, the petite silver-haired woman whose name I never bothered to learn, leads us to the queue where we'll wait for Caesar Flickerman to introduce us, reminding us to stay there and not mess up our makeup. By this point, I'm so wrung out and sick of dealing with people that I can't even muster up the energy to be annoyed at her patronizing advice.

"What are you going to say?" Clove asks.

"Why do you want to know?"

"Just in case Caesar asks me about you."

"Why would he ask you about _me_? It's _your _interview."

She rolls her eyes. "Forget it, Cato. Just don't screw up."

"I won't," I growl. I've never screwed anything up in my life, at least not anything big. Losing my temper is the closest I've ever come to making an irreversible mistake, but I've managed to make it this far without ruining my life. Why do these people insist on treating me like a time bomb?

I can tell when Caesar Flickerman steps onto the stage because a cheer rises from the audience, resonating across the stage and making the floor vibrate. He makes a handful of opening announcements, plays a slideshow displaying everyone's training scores(_an eleven. How the hell did that girl get an _eleven_?_), and, finally, announces the beginning of the interviews.

From my spot in line, I watch Glimmer step onto the stage.


	14. The Career Interviews

Chapter Fourteen

Glimmer strolls onto the stage, every movement deliberate, unhurried. The crowd _oohs _and _ahs_ as her sunset-colored dress ripples behind her. Whistles pierce the air, overwhelming the sound system so the tech crew has to readjust the settings. I take this as a good sign—a response like that means she's already gained enough favor with the audience to get good sponsor gifts, and since she's in my alliance, that means provisions for myself as well.

She flips her hair, golden ringlets bouncing against her fair shoulders as she floats down into the interview chair. Caesar, sporting blue hair and a sequin-studded jacket, leans forward as if to get a better look at her. "Listen to that reaction," he says, his voice pulling up in all the right places to highlight his awe.

Glimmer smiles, displaying a set of teeth so radiant that I suspect her prep team's involvement. "I'm honored they feel so much love for me," she says. The pitch of her voice is higher than usual, but it doesn't sound like stress. She's playing up the innocent-yet-sexy golden girl act.

Beside me, Clove nods to herself. Her freckled arms are crossed in front of her chest, and I can tell she's studying the older girl's responses, analyzing what makes Glimmer so adored by the Capitol. Being so fixated, I have to wonder how much more she's getting out of our ally's interview than I am.

Caesar starts off with personal questions. "So, Glimmer, I hear you're very excited to be a part of these Games. Is there a reason you're so eager to fight?"

She lifts her head. The stage lights dance off her glossy curls. "I want to bring honor to District One again. I feel it's important that we're well-represented, and if I win, I'll return home as a hero."

_So it's a matter of honor for her, too, _I think, listening to the crowd's appreciative rumble. _The Capitol's eating it up. I'll have to mention honor when I get up there. _

"That's quite the lofty goal," Caesar says.

Another breathtaking smile. The cameras zoom in around her face, highlighting her natural beauty. "You have to aim high if you want to reach the top."

"What an inspirational philosophy. Such a wonderful example of a tribute, don't you think, folks?"

There's another cheer. When it subsides, Caesar changes tactics, asking about Glimmer's personal life. It's the usual District One stuff. Glimmer restates her dreams of fame and fortune, connecting them back to the Games without a hint of subtlety. Both Caesar and I are surprised when she mentions a childhood desire to be a singer, and he asks her to sing a few bars in her last thirty seconds on the stage. After a few moments of feigned embarrassment, she opens her mouth and sings into her microphone. Her voice is pleasant, and the Capitol seems to love it, but I think it's the thrill of watching a tribute step out of their comfort zone that brings their hands together in applause, not the actual performance. Seconds after she finishes the song, Caesar shakes her hand and has her walk off the other side of the stage.

Marvel's interview comes next. I can tell at once that he's not as big a hit with the audience as his partner—it must be hard to follow such an attractive, likeable tribute. It makes me glad that Clove is too plain and sour-faced to stand out like that. I'll need sponsors of my own once the Career alliance falls apart.

"So how confident are you that you're going to make it to the end?" Caesar asks Marvel.

"_Very _confident."

_Well, too bad for you, _I think. _Because you're not going to beat me. _

After about a minute, Caesar inquires about Marvel's home life. "So what did you want to be if you couldn't be a tribute?"

"Well, Caesar, this may surprise you, but I wanted to be a model."

The audience laughs for the first time since Marvel got on stage. He gives an exaggerated shrug, grinning. "And then I got older, and I realized that _this _face—" He twirled his finger in front of his nose. "—just wasn't going to cut it for me."

More laughter, but it's all good-natured. I've seen Games where the laughter stems from humiliating the tributes, such as when one faints or says something stupid. Marvel doesn't have the same stage presence as his partner, but his humor will net him some sponsors.

Again, this is a good thing. He is part of my primary alliance, and as long as I kill him at the right time, I can maximize the benefits I'll receive from his sponsor gifts without jeopardizing my own chances of victory.

The interview goes on, and Marvel makes a quip about how he could use his winnings to get plastic surgery and live out his dream of being a model. More laughter follows, lingering until his three minutes are up. Before he walks off the stage, he gives the crowd a sweeping bow, grinning broadly.

Apparently, Marvel is not as reserved in front of the cameras as he is at the lunch table.

"Wish me luck," Clove says on her way out. "Or I'll put a knife in your back."

"Good luck," I say. By this point, I've pretty much gotten over our argument in the limo. In fact, I've pretty much forgotten what we were arguing about, except for a vague tidbit about Clove's makeup.

She walks out onto the stage, her vivid orange dress rippling like fire. There's an appreciative murmur from the crowd, but again, she's not stunning like Glimmer was.

"Come on up. Don't be shy, we're all friends here."

Clove's lips twist into a mockery of a smile, but she sits.

"So, Clove, you got a ten in training. That's quite impressive. I don't suppose you'll tell us your secret?"

Tributes aren't allowed to talk about what they do during the private sessions, since it would affect the betting; Clove knows this. "Well, I wish I could, but you'll have to wait until the arena to find out."

Caesar nods his approval. "We're all looking forward to it. I'm sure whatever it was, it took a lot of effort to master."

"Yes. It's been a hobby of mine for quite some time."

_Good, _I think. She's hinting at prior training without saying anything rebellious enough to get us in trouble. The audience, many of whom already suspect rigid pre-Reaping training programs, will interpret her "hobby" as a skill with weapons. _Clever, aren't you, Clove? I might have to kill you sooner than I thought. _

For some reason, as soon as I think it, I feel guilty. She's my district partner, and yes, she needs to die for me to win, but if she survives longer than I do, there will still be a chance for District Two to win. Even if it's only posthumously, people will remember my name if I helped my district partner survive to the end.

And really, aren't the Hunger Games all about honor? Rebellions have been nonexistent in the seventy-four years since the end of the Dark Days, which means the Games have done their job. Since it's been peaceful for so long, the Games have shifted from a preventative measure to a battle for dominance. For District Two in particular, it is a matter of pride to win the Games.

I will not lose a chance to bring honor to my district.

While I've been distracted, the interview has continued. "So, you were excited to have your name drawn. Can you tell us what made you want to be part of the Hunger Games?"

Clove's face darkens, her lips pulling down at the corners. I frown. What's she doing? I'd assumed from her earlier comments that she was going for a confident angle, like Marvel. But suddenly, her face is cold, her eyes as hard as the emeralds they resemble. "I have more reason to win than any of the other tributes," she says.

"Oh? Do tell?"

"Losing isn't an option for me, or my family. Victory is the only path I can take. I won't accept anything less, and I'll kill anyone who stands in my way."

I know there must be more to the story than that—and Caesar must know, as well, because he presses for details. But Clove remains frigid, almost glaring into the cameras now. She gives no reasons _why _she has to win, only assures the citizens of the Capitol that she does. It's all rather . . . odd. It's like she wants to play the pity card, but she's too agitated to mention whatever it is the audience should pity her for.

Caesar can't uncover a single concrete reason for her desire to win in her three minutes, but he manages well enough, giving her a fond farewell despite the perplexed look in his eyes.

And then I'm being called onto stage.

_Don't screw this up, _I tell myself, suddenly wishing I'd attended the poise lessons earlier today. There are cameras everywhere, so any misstep will be broadcast, repeatedly, all over Panem. One mistake, and I lose this chance to bring just a little bit of honor to District Two. _Father would've beaten you for this, _my mind whispers. _He would've called you an idiot for skipping out on your lessons. _

My hands ball up into fists as I stride toward the chair. It's a white, bowl-shaped thing, made of hard plastic so it shines in the light. It's like they're serving me up to the Capitol on a giant plate.

Caesar gets up to shake my hand. His palms are dry, the skin smooth. Just what I'd suspect from an experienced servant of the Capitol. "Well, you're a dashing young man," he says. "Why don't you tell us how you came to be here?"

It's one of his standard opening questions. He has a bunch of them, questions I've heard over and over since I was a child, but Caesar is careful not to repeat queries too many times in the same year. The fact that he's asking me this particular question means he wants me to talk about how and why I volunteered. "Well, I signed up to volunteer a few weeks before the Reaping, back in District Two. I've been volunteering since I turned fourteen, but this is the first time my name's been drawn." At once, I want to smack myself for that last addition. Of _course _it's the first time my name's been drawn. Tributes are never drawn twice, not even if their age makes them eligible. Stupid mistake number one.

"Yes, I heard there were quite a lot of volunteers in District Two this year. You must be lucky."

I smirk. "Yeah, definitely. You know, I think volunteering is harder than the Games themselves. I stood in line for an hour to get into the volunteer basket."

The crowd gives a little chuckle.

I continue. "But you know, Caesar, I'm glad I got chosen this year." Mostly because this is the last year I'm eligible, but that's beside the point. "I've got some tough enemies to face, so it'll be even sweeter when I take them down."

"You sound confident."

I shrug, emphasizing the movement so the audience can see more clearly. "Of course I'm confident. I'm the best."

Caesar arches one eyebrow. Like the rest of his hair, his eyebrows have been dyed a dark blue. "I heard there was one tribute that scored higher than you."

My stomach tightens with rage. Caesar flinches, smile vanishing just for a moment as he reads the fury on my face. Can't I even have my interview without mention of that wretched girl? "A fluke," I growl. "Whatever she did that was so impressive was a fluke. I never saw her do anything remarkable in training."

"Well, let's hope that holds up in the arena," he says, regaining his composure. Then he changes the topic. "So, are you enjoying your time in the Capitol?"

_Are you asking me to flatter the audience? _I want to scream. My lip twitches. "I'll enjoy the arena more."

"It's been so long since we've had such a tribute so _eager _to get into the Games."

"That's the reason I signed on for this. I want to bring honor to District Two. It doesn't matter who stands in my way. We all bleed the same."

A murmur of approval ripples through the audience. Honor. Brutality. These things mean something to the people of Panem. I have, in just a few words, become someone of interest to them.

My lips curl up in a toothy grin.

"Absolutely brutal!" Caesar says, a shudder shooting down his body. "What do you think, everybody? Is Cato Talaith the next victor?"

It might be because the sound is no longer blocked by the walls backstage, but this cheer carries with it a sort of shockwave, like the kind that ripples out from an explosion. Their applause slams into me with physical force.

"Everybody, give one last cheer for Cato Talaith of District Two!" Caesar says, taking my hand and lifting it into the air in a salute of victory. I rise from the chair, standing tall. When I walk off the stage, a part of me feels like I've already won.

* * *

><p><em>Author's Notes:<em>

_Hey, everybody, thanks for reading. I just wanted to post a notice here regarding another Hunger Games fic I'm working on. It's called _The Intergalactic Games_, and it's written under a FFN account named "Flight of the Mockingjays." It's the first story I've co-written, and I'm very excited about it, so if you like my writing style, please check it out. It's updated weekly._


	15. Vulnerable Moment

Chapter Fifteen

"Nicely done," Glimmer says as I walk off the stage. Her eyelids flutter, and for the first time, I noticed the layer of glitter over her eyelashes. As soon as I'm out of sight of the audience, I take a bow and listen to her tinkling laugh. Endorphins pump through my veins, and I feel almost drunk off the audience's applause.

"Quiet," Clove hisses to us. "They're starting the next interview."

The Capitol is nothing if not efficient. The roar from the spectators hasn't even died down yet, and they've already brought in District Three. I stand on the side of the stage, just out of sight of the cameras, and watch as the District Three girl stumbles through her interview. Every time she answers one of Caesar's queries, her voice rises like she's asking a question. More than once, the tremor in her voice is audible. _Fresh meat, _I think, my lips twitching into a grin.

Her partner goes next, faring much better. He, at least, is able to speak calmly, and though his answers are neither deep nor related to his strategy, the audience gives him a smattering of applause, which is much better than the awkward laughter his partner received.

District Four comes next, and though I'm obligated to pay attention to that part of my alliance, my mind drifts. I can hear Remora claiming that her score of eight was the result of her saving her best skills for the arena, but her words ring hollow in my ears. Instead, I watch Clove. Her rounded face is pinched into a sour expression, as if she's trying to give Remora stage fright through sheer force of will.

I can't find it in myself to begrudge her the attempt.

But Remora makes it offstage without incident and joins the rest of us. Her papery lips, painted electric blue for the cameras, curve up at the corners when she looks at Clove, and her laugh sounds like a screeching cat. "That's how it's done, Clove. Better luck next time."

I don't say that there won't be a next time. I don't say that I, personally, would gladly butcher Remora, except that I can't because she's part of my alliance now. I don't say that she's acting half her age, and immature tributes die early in the Games. But I'm thinking it.

I can almost see the steam coming out of Clove's ears. "Bitch," she hisses at Remora.

"Is that all you have to say? You don't have much in the way of creativity do you?" Another shrill laugh rises from her lips. "Of course, I suppose I can't expect much from a District Two dog."

Clove's hands coil into fists at the insult, and she lunges forward, arm shooting out. Time slows to a crawl, allowing me to think even as I stare at the unfolding scene. Logically, I know that I'm the only one who's close enough to stop Clove's assault before the Peacekeepers jump in to dispel the fight. I also know that if Clove gets disqualified or executed for fighting, that's one more opponent out of the way. Conversely, if Clove doesn't get executed for attacking another tribute, the Gamemakers will put us through hell in the arena, which will diminish our chances of winning.

But more than anything, I'm furious that anyone has the nerve to insult District Two.

Clove's fist rockets toward Remora's face, and I react the same way I always have: impulsively. My hand snakes out, wrapping around Clove's wrist and yanking it toward me so her knuckles graze my shoulder instead of breaking Remora's nose. The District Four girl flinches back, and I have time to think about how her slow reaction time is going to be the death of her.

Clove spins, whipped around by my intervention. She's tiny for a Career, and I'm strong—it doesn't surprise me at all when the force of my tug causes her to crash into my chest. Still gripping her wrist, I move her arm out of the way so her elbow doesn't jab her in the ribs.

And then she's in my arms, green eyes wide, panting as if she's just had a panic attack. We stand like that for a minute, frozen, and all I can think is that she looks as fragile as spun glass, trembling in my arms.

"Looks like the hand-holding District Twelve brats aren't the only lovebirds around here," Remora taunts.

I turn, releasing Clove's wrist and unwinding my arm to free her waist. As I turn, Remora's smug expression cracks, her smile faltering. She retreats half a step, but I advance, backing her into a wall. I can feel the others' eyes on my back, but no one moves to stop me as I pin the District Four girl to the sheetrock by her throat. "Do you have any idea how lucky you are to be part of my alliance right now?" I whisper, cold fury seeping into my voice. My fingers twitch around her neck, and she fidgets, making an odd whistling noise as she tries to breathe. "Do you have any idea how insignificant your life is to me, or how easily I could snap your neck?"

A soft whimper escapes Remora's throat.

I continue. "I don't like it when someone belittles my district partner. It shames District Two. Back off, or your death will be excruciating. Understand?"

All the blood drains from Remora's face, and I can see her body trembling even as she nods.

"Good." I release her, knowing she's too shaken—and too relieved—to strike back. My hand finds Clove's, and I meet her eyes. The panic of a moment ago is gone, replaced by uncertainty, but she doesn't say anything. I look around, noting the Peacekeepers standing by every exit. Some of them are looking in our direction, but none have made a move toward us yet, and I think they've sensed that the confrontation they've been watching for won't materialize. "Come on, Clove. Let's go somewhere else."

She nods numbly, following me as I tow her down the corridor. When I reach the end, I turn to the nearest Peacekeeper and ask, "Is there anyplace we can go where we won't have to watch the rest of the interviews?"

I can't see the Peacekeeper's face through the mask, but their hesitation belies their surprise. They point to a white door labeled "sitting room," and I tug on Clove's hand to lead her through the doorway. She follows, clutching her sunset-colored dress until her knuckles turn white.

There's a couch inside; still clasping Clove's hand, I walk over and sit down. Clove sinks into the cushions beside me, lifting her free hand to her face to wipe the moisture from her eyes. When she pulls her hand from mine to stem the flow of tears, I let her go.

"So," I say. "What was that about?"

Her breath catches, and I pretend not to notice the way her eyeliner smears as she drags her fists over her eyes. It takes her a moment to answer. "She called me a dog."

"It could've been worse. You know that."

"I hate her. I want her to die."

I nod. "I know. So do I. But not until we've gotten rid of the other tributes."

She sniffs, wiping her eyes again. I've read stories where crying characters are described as angelic, but looking at Clove, I know that's a lie. There's no such thing as pretty tears. Clove's face wrinkles, her features pinch together, and her cheeks turn a splotchy red, made slimy by saltwater. Her tears are fit to elicit pity, not attract admiration or inspire poetry.

It seems wrong that she's my enemy. Not only is she my district partner, but her tears have made her look vulnerable, not worth killing. The mere thought of driving a sword through her heart sickens me. Instead, I feel the urge to comfort her, to take the pain away. I lay a hand between her shoulder blades and rub small circles across her upper back, the same way my mother had always done when I'd cried as a child. It surprises me how easily those memories resurface, as if it's only been days since that's happened, when in reality I haven't cried in years.

"You and me," I murmur, repeating the false promise I made to her a few days ago. "We'll be the last two, and then we'll duel to decide the victor." Lies. So many lies. I can forgive the Capitol for making us enemies, but I can't forgive them for making me lie to her.

"Why did you stop me from hitting Remora?" she asks. "I'm still your rival—letting me do something stupid so the Capitol could execute me . . . that would get you one step closer to victory."

I pause, thinking. This time, when I speak, it's the truth. "I could say that the Gamemakers would've made our time in the arena miserable, but the real reason is that I was sick of watching that bitch make fun of District Two, and I wanted to deal with her myself."

She lifts her face, still sticky with tears, to look at me. Then she looks away. "That's very . . . honorable of you."

I shrug. "That's what I was going for during the interview. Better if I practice what I preach."

A small smile creases her lips, fading quickly. Then, unceremoniously, she pulls the hairpins from her bun and lets her dark tresses tumble down her shoulders, over the back of my hand. She's a lot prettier with her hair down, and I wonder why our prep team decided to pin it up in a bun. "I've never had anyone stick up for me before," she says. "It's kind of nice."

I smile and nod. It's so easy, in that moment, to take pride in standing up for her. So easy to forget that we're enemies, however amiable we may be right now. As if we're friends.

I hope I don't have to be the one to kill her. I'm not sure I can, anymore.


	16. Launch Day

Chapter Sixteen

Brutus and Enobaria find us an hour later. Neither of them say anything, but I can feel the judgment in their stares, the weight of their disapproval. Showing weakness gets you killed in the arena, and crying during the Games is the height of dishonor among volunteers.

Clove rises from the couch, brushing her hair behind her ears and meeting our mentors' eyes. She, too, is silent, unmoving as a statue. Despite her small stature, she stands tall under their disapproval. Eventually, Enobaria sighs and pulls a handkerchief from the back pocket of her jeans. "Here. Wipe the makeup off so no one knows you've been crying."

Her reasons are practical, but I can't help but think the fierce woman is unnerved by what she sees. Clove obeys, scrubbing the runny makeup off her face to Enobaria's standards. When she's done, Brutus tilts his head to the door, silently instructing us to follow.

We head out to the limousines. Evidently, all the other tributes have already left, because our car is one of the last in the parking lot. An Avox opens the door, and we slide onto the black leather seats without a word. There's nothing left to be said. I want to defend Clove from our mentors' disappointment, but the silence in the car is so oppressive, even our prep team doesn't remark on the absence of Clove's makeup.

In the time it's taken for Brutus and Enobaria to find us, traffic has clogged the Capitol streets. Lines of cars move in fits and starts, stopping at red lights, then rocketing down the street as soon as they turn green, making up for lost time. Even when the limo accelerates, the transition is so smooth it's hardly noticeable. The engine doesn't even rev—that's how finely tuned this car is. I wouldn't even know where to _look_ to find something like this in District Two.

We arrive at the Training Center for the last time. Tomorrow, we head into the arena. All of us—our prep team, our mentors, our escort, and Clove and I—step into the elevator, everyone standing as far apart as possible. Tension hums between us, but none of us acknowledge it. It's like attending a funeral, where everyone says things like, "They will be missed," instead of what they're really thinking, which is usually something like this: "Hey, there's a dead guy in a box." Another façade, just like the aggressive façade I've been crafting for years. I wonder how long it'll hold up in the arena. I've always had a temper, but the bloodthirsty edge to my thoughts is something I created. For years now, that edge has been keen, so ingrained it felt natural. After letting my enemy cry in my arms, I have to wonder if I can hold it together until the end of the Games. My father always told me it would get easier, after those first few kills—just like slaughtering livestock in my lessons had become less taxing.

Will I be able to kill effortlessly when this is over? Will I enjoy feeling the wet, sticky blood sliding down my hands?

The elevator stops, and I let the questions drift from my mind, unanswered. I'm too weary to think about it. The interviews, the hours of prep, the confrontation with Remora . . . The day has left me emotionally drained.

The prep team and our escort abandon us as we walk to the dormitory. Apparently, their days aren't over until they gorge themselves and get drunk on Capitol food. Brutus and Enobaria follow us to our rooms, only speaking just before we part ways. "Watch the interviews before you go to bed. They contain valuable information about the other tributes."

I nod at Brutus's suggestion. Clove continues to look ahead, face devoid of all emotion.

"There are sleeping pills by each of your beds," Enobaria adds. "We suggest you take them. You won't get much chance to sleep in the arena."

Which means this could be the last good night's sleep we ever get. No one says it, but we all hear it. Again, I nod, and Clove stares straight ahead. I wonder what she's thinking—she knows the price of tears, but to be fair, she managed to get out of sight of the other tributes before she started crying, so really, I'm the only one who saw her moment of weakness.

Brutus glances between us. "Order some food before you go to bed, but don't stay up past eleven. We leave the Training Center at nine tomorrow morning."

Enobaria glances at Brutus, and the two of them turn simultaneously to walk down the corridor. I can only take their somber departure as a dismissal. They must consider us lost causes now, seeing weakness in Clove's tears and my sympathy. I'll prove them wrong when we get to the arena, but I'm too tired to fight them right now. I head into my room, turn on the light, and close the door behind me.

It's already late. If I'm going to eat, watch the interviews, and get to bed before eleven, I have to start now. I scroll through the dinner menu, envying the ease of acquiring food here in the Capitol. My mother cooks everything our family eats in District Two, and half the time, she does it with whatever she can find at the dilapidated grocery store in our neighborhood. There are no fancy, three-course meals, no parsley garnish adorning the edges of her plates, no buffet lines. It could be my mental fatigue, but everything on the menu looks too fancy, too perfect to be real. In the end, I settle on the simplest thing I can find and hit the order button. Not a minute later, a plate slides into place beneath the menu screen, appearing from beyond the wall, as if the Capitol is so advanced, their machines can make gourmet meals at the press of a button.

The people of the Capitol would never make it through the Hunger Games

I take my dinner to the couch, eating the breaded chicken and pulling up the interviews on the wall screen. The spicy crust crumbles in my mouth, the chicken still moist and tender, but it's unsatisfying somehow. As soon as I finish, I stand up and scroll through the dessert menu, ignoring District Four's interviews, until I find chocolate chip cookies. Baked goods are a rare treat in District Two, despite how much the Capitol apparently favors us, but I remember my mother baking cookies for me as a child, when she could. They'd always come out burnt on the bottom, but it was really one of the only times I got to eat chocolate, so I scraped the burnt bits off and ate the rest.

The Capitol cookies are brown around the edges, gooey in the middle, and make the air smell like brown sugar and home. I eat them all, dipping them in the squat glass of milk the Capitol thought to provide me, then head to bed as soon as District Twelve's interviews are done. I don't even care about their stupid love declaration. I'll remember it, and I'll use it, but other than that, I don't care.

Sleeping pills sit on the end table by the bed. Just two of them. As if the Capitol is afraid that I'll overdose.

Ridiculous.

I ignore the pills, crawling into bed and ordering the lights off(despite my reservations about the excessive care they take presenting their food, I have to admit that I enjoy the voice-activated lights).

I sleep like a dead man.

I wake ten minutes before my alarm blares, my body used to getting up before sunrise. All in all, not having to hear the alarm clock makes for a much more pleasant morning. I spend half an hour under the shower's water jets, playing with the buttons until I find a good combination of temperature, soap, and steam(they have controls for steam! Why don't they have this in District Two?).

Breakfast is a lot livelier than our post-interview silence. Whatever Brutus and Enobaria said to each other last night, they've evidently decided to overlook our moment of weakness. They drill us on survival tactics, and between the two of us, we know enough wilderness survival restore the last of their shaken faith, and both of them make a point to compliment us on our knowledge before we head down to the lobby.

And then I'm in for a shock. Everybody is waiting—Aquarius, his blue hair gelled into spikes, flanked by his colorful prep team; our silver-haired escort, who Brutus addresses as Trina. _So _that's _her name, _I think to myself. And that's all I have time to think, as they rush up to hug us. Even Aquarius, who has so far carried himself as if everyone around him was covered in poisoned spikes, shakes each of our hands. When Clove gasps, I look over.

Aquarius has brought her ring back to her. It takes me a moment to realize it was the ring she'd had confiscated for further examination back in District Two. Her green eyes light up as if it's an engagement ring rather than her tribute token. "Thank you," she says, a genuine smile finding its way to her lips.

"They had to check all the tokens to make sure they couldn't be used as weapons," Aquarius says. Then, grinning, he leans forward and stage-whispers to her. "They confiscated Glimmer's token—evidently, _her _ring had a poison barb inside."

Clove's eyes go wide. "Did she know about it?"

"She says she didn't." Aquarius arches one electric blue eyebrow, silently showing his disbelief. Then he winks and turns to me, pulling something else from his pocket. Suspended on a chain hangs the metal bolt I chose as my district token, also taken after the Reaping. I bow my head and let him fasten the necklace around my throat. It's tight enough that it'll be hard for another tribute to latch onto, though I'm sure the metal clasp will fracture before it injures me.

"Keep those close, and remember who you are," he says, laying a hand on each of our shoulders. "Don't lose sight of what you set out to do."

Aquarius steps back, resting his hands on his hips. The corner of his lip twitches, and I can tell he's trying to look severe, instead of optimistic. The shift between last night and this morning is so jarring, it seems surreal.

They believe in us. Our prep team, our stylists, even our mentors. They all believe in us.

"We're going to be late," Trina announces, her eyes frozen on the digital time display on the wall. "Time to get in the limo. Aquarius will meet you there." At this, she gives the head stylist a severe look that makes me wonder if this has been an issue before. The blue-haired man grins, a strange expression on a face more given to sternness. But he hurries out the door to find transport for himself, and Trina escorts us to our usual limousine.

I can see a few other tributes heading out to their cars. Remora's standing at the edge of the sidewalk, her shoulders curled inward as her mentors lecture her. I nudge Clove and subtly point at the District Four girl.

Clove's face lights up like the Capitol at night. "Looks like her mentors are ripping her a new one. Serves her right."

"She'll be off her game. If you want to get rid of her without drawing attention, today's the day to do it."

Clove nods, and we slide into the limousine, followed by our mentors. An Avox closes the door behind us, and our driver pulls out onto the street. In the limo, speeding through the city, I feel like a celebrity. Visions of riches and mansions dance through my mind.

"Why are all the businesses closed?" Clove asks suddenly. It takes me a moment to catch up with the conversation. Apparently, Clove has been conversing with Enobaria for a while now, because they've leaned toward each other in order to more effectively exchange information.

"All Capitol citizens not critical for keeping order have time off to watch the Hunger Games. Most of the shops are going to be closed for the next two weeks or so."

Clove tilts her head to the side. "Really?"

Enobaria smirks, revealing her gold-tipped teeth. I look away, unnerved. "If only the rest of us were so lucky. Brutus and I both worked in the stone quarries before we got picked for the Games."

"And it was backbreaking work, too," Brutus mutters, staring out the tinted windows. I look that way, too; the streets are just as empty as Clove's questions imply. So empty, it's as if everyone in Panem has vanished off the face of the Earth. It's strange to think that they're all sitting at home right now, getting ready to watch us murder each other in the most brutal ways possible.

It's kind of eerie.

This is a much further drive than any trip we've made so far. Despite the lack of traffic, it takes almost an hour to reach our destination, and even then, that's just a transition from one mode of transportation to another. We end up by a skyscraper, much taller than the twelve-floor Training Center, and we're led straight to the rooftop to start the next leg of our journey. There we wait for the other tributes. Unlike the morning before the first training day, they all assemble quickly, gathering in pairs or groups of three or four.

Perhaps the hovercraft arrives on cue, or perhaps it's a miracle of timing, but as soon as the District Ten boy hobbles out of the elevator, I hear the almost silent buzz of the spinning blades holding the hovercraft aloft. Awed whispers overshadow the soft vibrations as the rest of the tributes retreat from the approaching hovercraft. As soon as it's close, a ladder shoots down from the edges, and one of the crewmembers gestures for us to approach. I'm the first to reach the ladder, but the moment I touch it, an electric current shoots up my arm and into the rest of my body. I try to pull away, but my muscles won't obey. Blood sings in my ears, adrenaline shooting into my veins as the ladder retracts, pulling me with it. Abruptly, the strange paralysis disappears, and I slump onto the floor of the hovercraft.

"Don't worry, kid. Even the best of us fall on our faces sometimes," says one of the crewmembers. I lift my head to glare at him, then shuffle over to the seat with my district number woven into the back. A few minutes pass as the other tributes take their seats. I imagine each has to be brought on individually, given the electrical charge of the ladders, and I wonder how a city so developed in creature comforts could be so lacking in efficiency.

The District Twelve tributes file in last, and then the hovercraft takes off, flying much faster than our limousines could ever drive. Within minutes, the Capitol shrinks to a shiny dot below, and we start heading for the arena. A shade falls over the windows as soon as the Capitol's out of sight, leaving us in darkness for almost a minute before the interior lights turn on. The boy from District Five asks one of crewmembers why they're blocking out the windows.

"You're not permitted to see the arena ahead of time," the man answered. "You'll be taken to the catacombs, and proceed from there."

The catacombs. I know it's just a bunch of tunnels beneath the arena built to house us in those final minutes before we're sent out to kill each other, but the name creeps the hell out of me. Images of skeletons sealed in dank, earthen passages plague my thoughts for the next half hour.

About an hour in, a woman comes by with a plastic tray. On it are a dozen blue pills. She quickly dispenses them to the female tributes, and another woman comes by a moment later with a small glass of water to help them get the pills down.

"What are these for?" asks the girl from District Seven.

The nurse's response is curt, but quiet. Still, we all hear it. "It's so your cycle doesn't start during the Games. It lasts four weeks."

Well. I guess that answers _that _question. I smirk at Clove, who's sitting across from me, pill in hand, her face the same splotchy red as last night. She glares at me, then pops the pill into her mouth without a word.

As soon as the pills have all been dispensed, the same nurse returns with a bunch of syringes. In the same businesslike tone of before, she orders us, one by one, to hold out our arms. When she gets to me, she picks up a fresh syringe and injects something into my arm. I wince, then play it off as annoyance. "What's this?"

"A tracking device." The nurse rubs a dab of clear liquid over the pinprick, soothing the ache. "This will be healed by the time you're in the arena."

Capitol medicine—just as rich and unnatural as Capitol food.

There's no clock in the hovercraft, but I estimate the flight to last about two hours. We land lightly, then, one-by-one, we're escorted out of the hovercraft and into the cement tunnel they've carved into the ground. We've landed in a room with no ceiling, so I can't see anything that would indicate what kind of terrain I'll be facing, but the air is temperate, so I rule out desert, jungle, and tundra. I could be wrong—perhaps there's some sort of weather barrier than keeps the temperature restricted to the arena—but I doubt it.

I walk down the cement corridor, relieved that there are no human skulls embedded in the walls. Aquarius is waiting for me where the tunnel branches off. He's not smiling anymore.

I wonder how he got here before we did. Does he have a hovercraft of his own, or do the stylists just take one hovercraft to the arena?

It doesn't matter. Aquarius greets me. We wait for Clove to arrive. When she does, we head down the curving branch to our left and find our way to a small room with our number painted in red on the door.

"There are curtains for you to change behind," Aquarius says, handing us each a bag. Inside, I find simple undergarments, orange-brown pants with a leather belt, a light green shirt with long sleeves, and a hooded black jacket that reaches my thighs. Every tribute will be wearing these until new clothes come down from sponsors. _If_ there are new clothes at all. Honestly, I prefer food and medicine over clothing, but any sponsor gift will be nice.

Aquarius guides us into our separate Launch Rooms. I know from watching the Games that tributes are shuffled around at random, which means my alliance might not be close enough to help in the event of a catastrophe. These first few minutes are all about _my _survival. There won't be time for anyone to help me, just like there won't be time for me to help them.

Aquarius offers me food and water. I take it, glad I have one more chance to eat before heading into the arena. Every calorie matters here, and I don't intend to waste this chance to replenish my energy.

Eventually, launch time arrives. A female voice comes on over the speakers, ordering us to get into our tubes. Aquarius pops his head in and gives me a quick glance before nodding his head. "Good luck."

I step into the tube, and the glass shield comes down. "I don't need luck," I tell him, but he's already gone. I ascend, darkness enveloping me as I shoot up to the surface. My eyes have adjusted to the lower light of the catacombs, so when my tube breaks the surface, I'm blinded by the sunlight.

Claudius Templesmith speaks, in a booming voice known to everyone in Panem. "Ladies and gentlemen, let the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games begin!"


	17. Bloodbath

_Author's Notes:_

_So . . . I did a dumb thing the other day. I was cleaning out my documents folder, where I keep all my fan fiction chapters, and I accidentally deleted the chapters I'd pre-written for this fic. Then, not realizing my mistake, I emptied the computer's recycling bin, and now those files are lost forever, so I have to rewrite them. Luckily for all of you, I remember most of what I wrote, so I've managed to reproduce my original version quite closely. I hope._

* * *

><p>Chapter Seventeen<p>

Once, when I was little, my mother taught me a game in an effort to improve my patience. The goal was to try to guess how long a minute was, and the way you played was by checking the clock, then turning around and trying to wait sixty seconds before turning back. I remember how I always turned too soon, how I never quite managed to wait the whole sixty seconds before I couldn't wait any longer and had to check.

That's how I feel now, as our sixty-second adjustment period slips by. My sixty seconds feel like hours.

My head whips around, taking in everything around me. Directly in front of me sits the Cornucopia, a massive golden horn overflowing with supplies. Near the edge, I can see loaves of bread, dried fruit, a plastic poncho, but closer to the center are the real prizes. There's a silver bow, one arrow already strung and ready to fire, as well as an assortment of knives, some sitting in neat rows where they've been laid out, others scattered randomly throughout the Cornucopia. Several spears litter the edge of the golden horn, but the largest sits right inside the mouth of the Cornucopia, next to a sword with a silver hilt. My hands twitch, a feral possessiveness nearly overtaking me, but I stay still. We're required to wait out these sixty seconds so the people watching the Games have one last chance to look at us. The bloodbath can last anywhere from a few minutes to a few hours, but by the end of it, about half the tributes will be dead.

I tell myself I won't be one of them, but a seed of doubt remains. I can see my allies, but since our places have been scrambled in the Launch Rooms, they're all too distant to come to my aid if I need it. These first few minutes are a solo game—it's a mad dash for the best supplies, whether you're picking them up for yourself or for your alliance, but there's no time to worry about anyone else, only yourself.

Thirty seconds left. I rip my attention away from the Cornucopia, having already decided to go straight for the sword in the middle and eliminate as many tributes as possible before they have a chance to make off with the rest. The ground around the Cornucopia is level, the terrain little more than dirt with a few sprigs of grass shooting up from the soil. The Capitol strives to make these Games as fair as possible, prepping all the tributes during the Training Days and making sure everyone is equidistant from the mouth of the Cornucopia. While my training puts me at a distinct advantage, I know that getting that sword is my surest bet for survival.

Twenty seconds. I can tell because there are screens hanging all around us. It looks as if they're floating in midair, but it's common knowledge that the hovercrafts they use in the arena can cloak themselves so they can't be seen. That's how they drop sponsor gifts without giving away a tribute's location. The only time you actually _see _a hovercraft in the arena is when they're picking up dead tributes.

Fifteen seconds. I survey the land around the Cornucopia. Looking behind me, I see open sky. This could mean there's a cliff at my back, in which case I'll have to keep my distance, or there's a steep hill, which I can potentially use to hide if I need to. To my left, a vast, clear lake stretches out, framed on three sides by trees. There's enough water there to keep all twenty-four of us alive for months, possibly longer. It seems almost ridiculous, considering that half of us will be dead within the hour.

Ten seconds. Beyond the Cornucopia, all I can see is dense forest. That means firewood, food, shelter. Whatever I can't get from the Cornucopia, I can get in there. The trees stretch around the Cornucopia until they stop at the slope behind me. The more I think about it, the more I have to believe that slope is a cliff, not just a hill. Trees still grow on hills.

Five seconds. All is still around the Cornucopia. It's as if everyone is afraid to move, afraid to even breathe, as if that could somehow set off the explosives at their feet. At the last second, I see the District Twelve boy shake his head, looking at his partner.

I ignore him, turning back toward my prize. These next few minutes are all about me. My pulse thunders in my ears, adrenaline making my heart pound faster, harder. The muscles in my legs twitch, eager to propel me toward the weapons.

The last seconds slip away, and I hear a gong go off. The sound is artificial, produced by the invisible hovercraft, but there's no time to think about that I shoot into the arena. My feet pound into the ground, propelling me forward faster than I've ever run before. Across the circle, other tributes lurch forward, but their movements seem almost sluggish compared to mine. _It must be the adrenaline, _I think wildly, rocketing past a box of kitchen supplies. I can't see anyone in my immediate vicinity, which must mean they're all behind me. My training has paid off—I'm faster, stronger, more driven than anyone out here.

In my peripheral vision, I see a flash of scarlet. I don't have to turn to know someone's dead, or that the red I see is their blood. A rush of primal exhilaration shoots through me, white hot, like fire in my blood, and a quick glance at the victim reveals a knife in his back.

Clove's made her first kill.

I reach the Cornucopia first. At once, I throw myself to the ground, reaching for the sword that has become the focal point of all my efforts. As soon as my hand touches the hilt, however, something pale streaks across my peripheral vision. A freckled hand, grabbing for my sword. I try to yank the weapon away, but my competitor's grip is tighter, and he jerks it out of my reach. At once, I'm on my feet, facing him down. My knuckles graze his cheek as I swing my arm, and he rears back, shoulders slamming into the interior wall of the Cornucopia. I recognize him, but no name comes to mind. He's from District Five.

My next punch lands solidly in his ribs, and he lets out a yelp, swinging _my _sword around as he tries to cut me. The tip scrapes against the ceiling of the Cornucopia with a harsh, grating wail. Flecks of gold leave flutter down around us, and I allow myself a moment of disappointment. I've always thought the Cornucopia was made of solid gold, a representation of all the grandeur and wealth available in the Capitol. To find that it's nothing more than sheet metal painted with gold leaf is quite the let down.

There's no time to worry about it. I duck low to avoid the next swing, then snatch the boy's wrist to keep him from cutting me. I lurched forward, on the boy's left so he can't get a clean slice. Indeed, he flails, and the closest the blade comes to killing me is a shallow cut across my shoulder. I keep moving, trying to turn him around, pin him to the wall.

As we spin, I see another tribute in the Cornucopia. A fresh burst of energy pulses through me, but then I realize it's Jeremiah, crouched down, picking up the fine spear I saw when I first looked into the Cornucopia.

He's my ally, but when he turns and runs outside, I know he's not coming back to help me.

The District Five boy spins the other way, trying to free himself from my grasp. His attacks are the instinctive, clumsy swipes of a cornered animal, but that doesn't make him any less dangerous. When he wrenches free of my grip, I have to lean back to avoid the arc of the sword slicing through the air. Still, it catches me in the neck, and I feel the sting of steel biting into flesh.

And then blood. Hot, sticky blood, running down my throat, but it doesn't seem to matter because the pain is fading fast, and I'm still moving, so I must not be dying yet. _Too shallow, _I think. _He missed the carotid artery._

The attack throws me off balance, and I reach forward, grabbing the edge of his thin coat and yanking him down with me.

We tumble to the ground, the impact knocking the wind out of me, and at once, I know I've made a mistake. Instead of twisting, I simply fall backwards, which leaves me vulnerable, lying on my back, as the District Five boy gets all the leverage. A snarl tears from my throat, and I can practically hear my father screaming at the TV, berating me for my stupidity.

Sword in hand, the District Five boy lifts his arm. The angle is all wrong, and I can tell he's never held a sword in his life, but that doesn't make it any less deadly. I make a split-second decision, grabbing his dominant wrist with both hands and _twisting_. There's a crunch, and a scream. The District Five boy reels back, flinging his sword into the air. It spins, then lands point-first in the ground a few feet away, penetrating nearly six inches into the dirt.

"Damn you," I growl, shoving against his chest and pushing him off me. Howling, he rolls away, clutching his wrist as if that's going to ease the pain. I jump to my feet as another scream pierces the air, this one high-pitched, female. The only thing I have time to process is that it's not Clove. It's too high-pitched, the screamer younger than the rest of the contestants. Either the girl from six or the girl from eleven.

Before I can think any further than that, something wraps around my ankle and hold me back. I pitch forward, landing two feet away from the sword. Sparks of pain shoot through my jaw, but I can't be sure if it's cracked or simply bruised. I roll, kicking fiercely at the District Five boy's face. I can't believe he's still fighting, considering the way he screamed just a moment ago. He pulls frantically on my ankle, dragging me away from the sword, but it's too late. My hand wraps around the hilt and frees the blade from the ground.

The next few seconds are hazy. My body twists, back cracking as the joints pop. My grip shifts so I'm holding the sword properly. Somehow, during all this, I manage to free my leg from the other boy's grasp. I thrust the sword into his chest, the point gliding neatly between his ribs. Blood gushes from his lips, splattering my face and mingling with the blood running down my neck, but I don't close my eyes. One second of inattention could mean death, and I don't have that luxury. I thrust the sword deeper, then pull it out. A thrill racks my body, like the rush I get when I achieve a new personal best in training, but fiercer, wilder.

I stab him again. By now, I'm so pumped full of adrenaline that I can barely feel the resistance of his flesh as I run the blade through him. My body seems to be working on a separate frequency from my mind, moving faster than I can think.

The District Five boy looks down at his bloodstained shirt, mouth agape, as if he can't believe he's about to die. There's screaming all around me now, several tributes dying at once.

My ears start ringing.

I drive my sword through the boy's heart one last time, and watch the light fade from his eyes. For him, being Reaped was a death sentence. For me, it was like having the world fall into my hands.

I stand, triumphant. The confrontation is over. I have the sword, and my whole body is singing with feral pleasure at the victory. Then someone screams, on the other side of the Cornucopia, and all of that shatters.

Because unlike those that came before, I recognize this scream. Recognize it the same way I'd recognize my own.

It's Clove.


	18. Adrenaline

Chapter Eighteen

My legs propel me toward the source of Clove's scream, but it's as if the air around me has turned viscous, making it impossible to move quickly.

Later, I will remember that Clove is my enemy. Later, I will remember that there can be only one victor. Later, I will remember that all my audience appeal rests on the Capitol's perception that I'm a ruthless killer.

But right now, all I can think about is saving the girl who cried after the interviews last night.

I grab the lip of the Cornucopia and fling myself around the side, not even slowing at the ninety-degree turn. Clove's scream cuts off, and my heart falters, beating jaggedly for several seconds, as if it's forgotten how to function. As I whip around the gold-painted horn, I slam into another tribute. The impact knocks me to the ground, but I barely feel it. Frustration bubbles up in me as I lift my sword to cut into whatever sorry bastard knocked me over, ally or not, but when I swing, the dark-skinned boy from District Eleven jumps to the side and somersaults out of the way, not even turning back to look at me as he runs straight for the drop-off I saw at the beginning of this mess.

I hope it's a cliff.

Rolling to my feet, I continue toward the place where I heard Clove's scream. But suddenly, the arena seems eerily quiet. After Clove's scream cut off, I haven't heard any new howls of agony. And the cannons don't start going off until the Gamemakers are sure the bloodbath is over, so there's no way to know if she's dead until I find her.

Abruptly, her scream picks up again. I stumble, relief and horror slamming into me. Relief because her screams prove she's alive. Horror because they also prove her life is in immediate danger.

I clear the Cornucopia, and Clove's shrieks grow sharper. My eyes zero in on her dainty figure. She's flailing wildly, trying to wriggle free of another tribute's arms. Even though her attacker never made much of an impression on me, I recognize the District Six male by his wheat-colored hair. One of his arms is wrapped around Clove's waist, pinning her elbows to her side so she can't use the knife in her hand. Of more immediate importance is the blade at her throat. It looks like the sort of knife one would find in a kitchen, the kind used for cutting up poultry, or maybe slicing carrots. It's hard to be sure, really. But if it's here, surely it can cut flesh as well.

All this flashes through my mind as I run toward them, and again, I note the strange disconnect between my mind and my body. Logically, I know I'm breathing hard, and that there's no point in saving Clove when I have to kill her later. But still, my body flies across the ground, instinct commanding me to do _something_.

The District Six boy yanks her head back by her ponytail, then moves his hand to her exposed throat. The muscle in his arm flexes, bearing down on her skin, and time slows, each second stretching on for hours as I run.

Stabbing him to death will take too long, and he's just as likely to sink the knife into Clove's jugular as he is to drop it and fight me. So killing him with my sword is out. My fingers uncurl, and the hilt slips through them, weapon hitting the ground with a thud. There's only one way that's fast enough, only one way I can kill him instantly with the tools I have on hand.

Another sluggish second ticks by. Hands free, I reach for the back of the boy's head. His body goes rigid, but the knife doesn't move. One of my hands clamps down over the side of his jaw. The other clutches his opposite ear. I know the mechanics of this, though I've never done it for real.

My body is so pumped full of adrenaline that I can't even feel it when it happens. But I hear it. The sickening crack, muffled by the flesh of his neck, repeating over and over as each vertebra snaps out of alignment. Like the sound a crab claw makes when you break it open to get at the meat inside.

And maybe that bloodthirsty persona really _is _ingrained in me, because all I can think is that it's really too bad they didn't leave any butter in the Cornucopia.

The boy's arms drop limply to his side, and Clove lurches forward, freeing herself from the dead weight and darting several feet away before turning back to me. Her face is pallid, her green eyes haunted. Even her simple braid is in disarray, loose strands sticking up all over the place.

I meet her eyes. She meets mine. We're both killers now, so maybe she understands the sense of triumph that makes my face flushed. Or maybe not. Either way, a ghost of a smile graces her lips, and she speaks. "You're hurt."

I lift a hand to the cut the District Five boy left on my neck. It stings, and there's blood all over it, but probing at it with my fingertips, I know it's not deep enough to kill me right away. Besides, with all the supplies, I'm sure there'll be medicine somewhere. "I'm fine."

Clove nods once, then turns around, grabbing a knife from the dirt at her feet before sprinting off to kill more tributes.

I go the other way, grabbing my sword from where I dropped it. Fatigue hits me hard, but this bloodbath isn't over yet. The sound of something solid hitting flesh echoes through the clearing, followed by another scream. On the other side of the Cornucopia, I see Jeremiah, the better half of the District Four alliance, bearing down on the District Ten girl. A splotch of blood mars her shirt, bright against her pale skin. In one hand, she's clutching a knife, which is dripping crimson. Jeremiah drives the point of his spear through her chest, and her dying whimpers vanish in a gurgle. She slumps back, fingers twitching around the knife.

Jeremiah crouches down at her side, reaching for the weapon. As he's prying her fingers off, the girl's other hand jerks, pawing at the spear Jeremiah has set aside.

I know what's going to happen before he does. There's time to call out a warning, and, being a Career, he'll react. But even as I open my mouth, something I considered back at the Training Center pops into my mind.

We don't need _both_ tributes from District Four.

My moment of hesitation is all it takes. The dying girl's hand wraps around the shaft of the spear, just as Jeremiah rips the dagger from her fingers. She turns the spear around so the tip points at his throat. Too late, he rears back.

He doesn't even scream. All his does is gape at her like a fish, then collapse, falling to the side with the spear still lodged in his trachea. The two die simultaneously, from wounds caused by the same weapon.

It's almost poetic.

A profound silence falls over the Cornucopia. No birds sing. No bushes stir. No deaths occur. It's as if life and death have ceased to exist in this bubble of space. In every direction, there are corpses. Many look pristine except for the red splotches on their clothes. The hovercrafts will take them out of here before they begin to rot, but we have to clear out of the area first, and we're not about to leave all our supplies behind.

After about thirty seconds, the rest of my alliance begins to congregate. Marvel jogs toward me. His face is splattered in blood, but from the spatter pattern, it's someone else's. When he sees Jeremiah, he lets out a soft sigh and slows down. "Is it over?" he asks.

"Looks like it."

"Well, I guess we made out better than I thought. Lots of boxes to pick through. We'll have to find a place to camp and move them all."

I nod. We'll probably take the lake, since it's the nearest reliable source of water.

Glimmer arrives next, following the same path as Marvel. Either she heard us talking, or she met up with him earlier in the fight and followed him here. Glimmer's not speckled with blood, like most of us are, but she's holding the silver bow I saw earlier, which means she at least got us a ranged weapon. Bows aren't common in the arena because watching someone snipe other tributes from atop a tree is not as entertaining as watching them go at each other with sharp sticks and bludgeons, but there's usually one, and this is it.

A few more seconds pass and Remora, the remaining half of District Four, slips out of the mouth of the Cornucopia. On her right cheek, there's a bloody gash. Untreated, it'll probably get infected, but there's probably medicine somewhere in this pile. I'll need some for the cut on my neck, too, and soon, before I lose too much blood.

Remora's eyes go wide when she sees Jeremiah's body. A shiver runs down her back, and her face pales. Good. She'll be easier to kill if she's struggling to cope.

Clove finds me then, and moves close to my side, haggard but unscathed. But I can only focus on that for a second, because I notice something off about this gathering.

Five of our alliance survived the bloodbath. There are six people in the clearing.


	19. Turn Against the Other

Chapter Nineteen

Clove sees him at the same moment I do, and in an instant, everyone in my alliance turns toward him, raising their weapons. "Well, if it isn't Loverboy," I taunt.

Peeta—I remember his name from the interviews—freezes where he stands, eyes going wide. He's got nothing in his hands, but there's a canteen for water slung around his shoulder. It swings freely, but nothing sloshes around inside. Empty. Belatedly, I realize how close he is to the lake, where he'd be able to fill that canteen and possibly gather allies. But fear has him paralyzed, and he's easy prey. I nod at Clove, and a twisted smile twitches up her lips. This isn't the girl who cried after the interviews; this is the girl who threw a knife into a wall in District Two. The girl trained to be a killer.

She lifts a knife. It's her last, already bloodied, and it doesn't seem well-suited to throwing, but all those considerations vanish from my mind when she flings it across the Cornucopia. The knife flashes, the spin giving it stability. Even with a shoddy knife, it's an expert throw. I add versatility to my mental list of Clove's skills.

Loverboy sees the knife coming. Anyone would. But instead of staying rooting to the spot, he throws himself to the ground, rolling across the dirt. The knife skims his cheek, but only a few drops of blood follow the attack.

Our whole alliance converges on him, like wolves hunting in a pack. But Loverboy is too far for any of us to end it quickly, and we're all drained from the first wave of fighting, which makes us slow. Meanwhile, he's probably afraid for his life, adrenaline making his reactions quicker, his mind faster. He whips around, and I think he's going to run. Instead, he snatches Clove's knife from where it embedded itself in the ground and waves it in front of us, acting like he can take us all out. "No closer," he warns.

Something in his voice clues me in to a change. He's not afraid, as he ought to be. In fact, he's looking at us as if deciding who he can take out first. And then I realize something: he knows he'll never make it out of this lopsided confrontation alive. Which means he has no plan, when we come at him, except to take out as many of us as he can before we overwhelm him. To protect his fiery girlfriend.

I remember his eight in training. As good as District Four, and he outlasted Jeremiah. We planned for an alliance of six, and the supplies we found here are plentiful. A score of eight means he's useful, but not necessarily a grave threat. Valuable.

"Everybody stop!" I bark. Closest to Peeta, Marvel and Glimmer simply freeze, but Clove and Remora look at me in confusion. I stride forward, meeting Loverboy's eyes. He holds his ground, watching me.

"Cato, what are you doing?" Clove hisses. In the eerie silence of the arena, her voice carries. For the first time, puzzlement flickers across Peeta's face, and his eyes dart to her instead of me. When I take another step forward, his gaze returns.

"Hey, Loverboy, you got an eight in training. Why don't you team up with us? We'll help you find your girlfriend." The words are laced with mockery, but they have to be. I'm putting on a show for all of Panem, reminding the viewers that, not only am I a ruthless killer, I also have more personality than a cardboard box.

Loverboy hesitates, lowering the knife half an inch. Is he seriously considering my offer to find his girlfriend? I smile wider. Any idiot who believes that deserves to die. Or maybe he's considering it because I mentioned his high score in training, which makes more sense. That was my intention, after all. Either he lets his guard down around us and dies, or he proves himself useful and lives a little longer.

"Do you mean that?" he asks, voice grim, laced with loathing.

Another smirk for the cameras. My sponsors have to believe I find this effortless, so playing everything off as contemptible is actually a valid strategy. I've played the cocky killing machine from the start; I'm not about to let that façade drop to reveal the boy who sympathized with his district partner's tears. _Weak. _The word echoes in my mind, taking on my father's voice. _You're weak, Cato, where it really counts. If you want to win the Games, your heart has to be harder than your head. _

"Oh, I mean it," I say, nodding. "Come with us. You'll be good for guard duty, strong as you look." I tilt my chin to the side, indicating the rounded muscles of his biceps. I'd bet my left arm that's part of the reason he scored so high.

He lowers the knife, surveying each of our faces. With the possible exception of Clove, the others won't question me on this. The District Twelve girl is the only one who scored higher than Clove and me. According to the tribute scores, no one in this alliance except my district partner can take me in a fight. Not numbers to rely on completely, but it does lend me prestige. Honor. And physically imposing as I am, my alliance will obey me.

"And if we do find Katniss?" he asks.

I shrug. "Depends on whether she wants to be part of our team or not. _You _can help her make the right choice, don't you think?" A bluff. That girl is too grave a threat to have on our team. Her eleven makes her an oddball, and I don't want to find out what makes her so formidable. Not firsthand, at least.

Peeta doesn't call my bluff. Instead, he nods and says, "Okay, I'll join your team."

"Good. Now use those muscles and start helping us haul supplies. I want to set up camp before we go hunting."

My command ripples through the group, and like before, they obey without question, scattering across the mostly-empty Cornucopia to haul boxes.

"Cato, where are we setting up camp?" Marvel asks, holding a crate of fresh fruit.

"The lake. It's a landmark and a good resource. The other tributes will be coming back there to get water. We can pick them off whenever they get close."

Marvel nods and starts for the edge of the lake. Glimmer follows, carrying the bow and arrows she found, along with several canteens and a sleeping bag. Loverboy dithers, the decisiveness of his previous actions now gone. After a moment, he walks over to the hefty box of kitchen supplies and picks it up. Just by the way he holds it, I can tell he's used to carrying heavy loads. I file that information away for later, knowing it might come in useful when we have to travel.

"Cato, look," Clove says, holding up a pair of orange sunglasses. They look familiar somehow, but I can't think of where I've seen them before.

"Sunglasses?"

She shakes her head. "No. Night-vision glasses. They had these in the Seventy-first Hunger Games, remember?"

I grin. Night-vision. And Clove has two pairs, which means we can afford to go out as a group instead of one at a time. I take one pair from her, and she pockets the other one. "Hey everybody," I yell, getting their attention. Everyone turns, stopping where they stand. I hold the orange glasses in the air, waving them around. "We're going hunting tonight."

Marvel and Glimmer exchange a glance, communicating without words. By the way their eyes light up, I can tell they know what these glasses are for. Remora and Peeta look confused, eyes darting between my face and my hands as if they haven't quite made the connection between what I'm holding and what I'm saying. But it doesn't matter. Loverboy will be first to go, and since Remora's going to be fishing for us until she dies, she won't need these. But the rest of us can trade these two pairs around as we hunt tonight.

Everyone gets back to work. I wipe my sword on one of the dead tribute's jackets, knowing the bodies will be carted away as soon as we vacate the area. We'll have to pick through them for any concealed weapons and tools they might've grabbed before they died, but we've been pretty thorough. Mostly, they have the clothes they came in and nothing else.

It takes a while to move all the boxes and other supplies. We gather everything into separate piles, sorting by category. The smallest pile is medicine, and contains some basic antibiotics, a couple rolls of bandages, and two cylinders simply labeled "topical medicine," with another label in smaller print that describes its use. I crouch down beside one of these cylinders and read the directions. The wound on my neck is shallow, yes, but it's better to heal it as soon as possible, so it doesn't get infected.

"Anyone else need medicine?" I ask, when I'm done reading the label. Peeta glances at me, then away. His face is bruised, his cheek still bleeding from Clove's attack, but he's smart enough to know he's not included in my offer. Then, Remora sets down several spears and hurries over, not saying a word.

My mind starts working, trying to outthink her. In her shocked state, that'll be easy enough.

"So," I say, dipping my fingers in the cool paste and lifting them to the cut on her cheek. Remora closes her eyes, sighing in relief. "We're going to need someone to guard the camp while we go hunting. You up for that?"

"Sure." Her response is too quick, ruining her attempt at nonchalance. I wipe more medicine into her cut, and watch as the redness fades from the edges. It's Capitol medicine, the best in the world, and from previous Games, I know it works miracles. Her cut will be healed before the day is over.

"Good. I'm going to put Glimmer on guard duty, too, since we don't have enough night-vision glasses to go around." I lean forward, smearing the last dab of medicine across her cheek, then wiping my hand on my pants. "But you know," I continue, voice dropping to a whisper. Remora leans toward me, attentive. My eyes flit to the rest of the group, all sorting through our supplies now that we've gathered most of them. Then I focus on Remora's face. "I'm not sure I trust Glimmer. I want you to watch, make sure she doesn't slip away with anything. Got it?"

She nods, eager to follow my orders because she thinks it'll put her back in my good graces. What she doesn't realize is that I'm manipulating her. _Remora_ is the one I don't trust, and she has more incentive than ever to just run off whenever the opportunity arises. In fact, I'm going to ask Clove to talk to Glimmer, after I assign the blonde girl guard duty, so Clove can sew more seeds of distrust between the two girls. As long as Remora and Glimmer are working against each other, they won't focus on taking us out.

"And don't let Glimmer find out you're watching her," I add, wiping medicine over the cut on my throat. The relief is immediate, the stinging sensation replaced by a cool, tingling feeling.

Remora grins, as if we're confidants. "I understand, Cato. I won't take my eyes off her."

"Good. Now go sort through our food supplies. I want it split between perishables and things that will keep until the end of the Games."

She nods and darts off toward the largest pile. The District Twelve boy is already organizing these. I get up to set the tent, but keep my eye on him, knowing how poor District Twelve is, how that makes them more likely to hoard food. And we certainly can't have that in the Hunger Games. But Loverboy steals nothing, and actually makes quiet conversation with Remora. Either he doesn't notice the contempt dripping from her words, or he's smart enough to play along. And if it's the latter, he's smarter than I expected. It's enough to convince me to keep him close, and keep him away from the other tributes as much as possible.

He'll be joining us for the hunt tonight.


	20. Hunting and Manipulations

Chapter Twenty

"Glimmer's on guard duty with Remora tonight," I say, sitting next to Clove as I bite into a peach. Until I was Reaped, I'd never eaten a peach. It's . . . sweeter than I'd expected, and juicier.

Clove looks at me, as if wondering why I'm telling her this. When she swallows the bit of bread she's stuffed into her mouth, she speaks. "Why have two people on guard duty?"

"Because I have a plan. I need you to talk to Glimmer before we go. Tell her you don't trust Remora, that you think she might try to steal from our stockpile if she isn't monitored. That'll set them against each other, and they won't be able to focus on us." Plus, two guards will be able to more effectively guard our tempting supply stash, and if a group of tributes does attack, Glimmer and Remora will be able to hold them off.

Clove's face turns thoughtful as she shoves another bit of bread into her mouth. This is the first time we've stopped working to eat. Our camp is set up, the massive tent stretched out ten feet from the lake for easy access. With our assortment of sleeping bags, it'll protect us from temperatures as low as twenty below, according to the label. I doubt this temperate arena will _get _that cold, but the assurance is nice, and it's better than being miserable. The tent will also keep us dry, for when it rains(which will most certainly occur. Stable weather conditions are boring for viewers, and sometimes, the Gamemakers use storms to divide or drive together tributes in order to provoke a fight).

Finally, Clove speaks. "That's pretty clever, for you."

I throw her a sardonic glance. "Gee, thanks. Glad to know I've done at least _one _intelligent thing since I got here."

Her lips twitch, and her hand flies to her mouth to stifle a giggle. I raise one eyebrow, surprised by her response. Could it be that Clove responds better to sarcasm than she does to direct questions? Because whenever I ask her something, she acts like she thinks I've never watched the Games. Which is ridiculous, because watching is mandatory, even in the Capitol, where its primary purpose is entertainment, rather than controlling the lesser districts. Yet Clove laughs at my sarcasm. I don't get it.

"I'll talk to Glimmer," she says, wrapping up the remaining half of her bread roll and stuffing it into the black backpack she's planning on taking with her. Several knives hang from her belt, ready to be thrown at the slightest provocation.

I don't care how unthreatening she looks: I will not underestimate Clove.

I finish eating just as Clove pulls Glimmer aside. As long as she's careful not to tip the older girl off to our manipulation, everything will go according to plan. Hopefully, one of our guards will be dead by the end of the night. Preferably Remora, but even if Glimmer dies, at least that's one less person to worry about in the future.

"Go ahead and start a fire," I tell Remora as Marvel and I pick through the weapons cache. A few things got away from us—knives, a spear or two, and some odder weapons, like slingshots and clubs—but we made out with most of the deadly weapons. "We want tributes to visit our camp so we can pick them off. You guys can handle a couple starving tributes, right?"

Remora nods, throwing a sly glance in Glimmer's direction. "Of course _we _can."

Irritation pulses through me. If she's going to be that obvious about her suspicions, even Glimmer will figure out that something's up. Then again, she might mistake that as manipulation on Remora's part and kill her anyway. I rein in my annoyance and nod once, dismissing the District Four girl.

It'll be another few hours before the sun sets, but the rest of the tributes have a head start, and many of them have probably found hiding places. That, or they're trying to put as much distance between them and us as possible. A wise strategy, given that the odds are not at all in their favor.

"Let's get moving," I say, wiping my sword clean with a random blanket we aren't likely to need. Eleven cannons went off an hour ago, meaning there are thirteen of us left. Twelve have to die for me to win, among them the members of my alliance. "We'll be out until tomorrow morning."

The others gather around me. Marvel carries two spears, one for throwing, one for close combat; he's also got a lightweight bag of provisions, including extra spear points and dried fruit in case we're delayed coming back to camp. Clove's got her knives, and therefore versatility, plus the food and medicine she packed. I've got my sword and a backpack, filled with food, ropes, and miscellaneous survival gear, in case we run into rough terrain.

Loverboy has the heaviest bag, partly because he's strong enough to carry it, and partly because, if we get ambushed and have to run, the extra weight will slow him down and he'll die first. I think he realizes this, because he keeps the one knife we've allowed him in hand, and keeps glancing around warily.

I lead the way. No one comments on my conspicuous leadership, and soon, everyone falls into step behind me. I head straight into the woods. Most tributes will have gone that way, since trees make the best cover. With our night-vision glasses, we'll be able to see tributes long before they see us. This first hour or two of walking is just to close the distance, so that when night comes, we can maximize our hunting time.

The trees are thick, and their roots stick out of the ground as if constructed for the sole purpose of tripping us. Which is entirely possible, I suppose. A broken ankle does make for quite a bit of drama, whether the victim is going solo and has to face a slow death or suicide, or if they're in an alliance, like us, and we have to either leave the injured tribute or give them the only mercy we can: death. Come nightfall, it'll be even harder to evade these roots, so the night-vision glasses will be essential.

And like that, I've decided who gets the best equipment. I need a pair, since I'm in charge, and the other pair goes to Clove, since she's my most solid ally. The question is, how do I get Marvel to believe that's for the best? He's my competition—any advantage I have is a disadvantage to him. And not giving him glasses, at this point, would be like putting him and Loverboy on the same level in our hierarchy.

I glance back at Clove, wondering how I can get a minute alone with her to strategize. I have time; it won't be dark for hours yet. Maybe I can call for a break after the sun sets to discuss this with her.

We walk for a long time. My personal trainers made me run five miles every day, and once a week, I'd have to do it with a backpack full of supplies. Granted, with Loverboy along with us, there's someone else to carry the heavy stuff, but still, the combined burden of the terrain, equipment, and grueling pace makes for a long evening. Only when the sun sets do things get easier. The air cools, the forest comes alive with the song of mockingjays. We don't have many mockingjays in District Two. The noise from the stone quarries keeps them away, and the few that stay repeat the strike of pickaxes on stone, then get killed when we get sick of hearing it.

After a while, Clove speeds up so she's side-by-side with me, instead of just following. "We don't have enough night-vision glasses for everyone. How do you want to split this up?"

"You and me, Clove. Always you and me above all others."

"What if Marvel turns on us?"

It's amazing, really, how she can pick up on my thoughts as if they were her own. We'll make a good team, at least until one of us is dead. "Do you think he will?"

She frowns, contemplating that for a moment. She probably knows I'm not asking about the long-term. Of course Marvel will turn on us when the remaining pool of tributes shrinks. What I want to know is if she thinks he'll turn on us over such a mild slight.

"No," she finally whispers. "Not yet."

I don't make eye contact. Looking at Clove right now could tip the others off to the importance of our conversation. I want it to seem like something insignificant, something that will slip from their minds as soon as anything happens.

Clove slows, falling in step behind me again. We keep walking for another half hour, until it's hard to see the ground beneath us. I stop. "All right, let's rest for a minute and gain our bearings."

Loverboy lets out a sigh of relief, and Marvel nods, setting down his spears. Both find an empty patch of grass among the foliage and stretch out, drinking water and snacking on their rations. Or, at least, Marvel drinks and snacks. Peeta looks between us anxiously, knife still in hand, as if he's contemplating a betrayal already.

Our eyes meet. The blood seeps out of his face and he looks away, making a show of setting the knife down.

Smart boy.

I give everyone enough time to eat and massage the aches out of their legs. Then, without a word, I pull the orange spectacles out of my backpack and put them on. A minute later, Clove mimics me, turning away from the others and stretching as she dons her pair. Just like me, she's trying to make it look like no big deal. But I see Marvel watching, waiting. When no one makes a move to give him a pair of glasses, he returns his attention back to the various spear points he collected from the Cornucopia.

Either Marvel understands my priorities and has decided not to trifle with me, or he's an even better actor than he was during the interviews. I move him up on my list of tributes to watch out for, right behind Clove and Katniss, from District Twelve.

"All right, let's get going." I stand and sling my backpack over my shoulders again. The others do the same. They've made quite a show about obeying me, and I hope it's genuine fear that makes them submissive, rather than a scheme to lure me into a false sense of security. Fear is a reliable means of controlling people; I've seen it in action, when the Peacekeepers threaten to whip miners who don't meet their monthly quota of stone. Needless to say, the people of District Two don't shirk their responsibilities.

We head deeper into the woods, and despite the darkening night around us, the spectacles allow me to see everything, as if this forest was flooded with light. Every twig, every root, every tree—even animals that I didn't notice in the daylight are suddenly plain to my eyes.

Our improved vision means Clove and I can pad quietly through the forest, but behind us, the rest of our team is struggling to keep up. Loverboy, in particular, is crashing through the branches as if he's forgotten the importance of stealth. "Shut up," I hiss. "We're trying to _find _the other tributes, not have them find us."

Peeta blanches, then looks away, shamefaced. I keep walking, neck stiff with annoyance. Hopefully, he'll be able to lure his district partner toward us, so we can take her out. I don't know what she showed the Gamemakers, but her high score forces me to pay attention to her, even though she's from District Twelve. Better to bring her down now, while we've got the advantage of numbers.

"What are you doing?" Marvel asks suddenly. I glance back, confused by his question, but it's not me he's talking to, it's Loverboy.

"Marking our path so we can find our way back," Peeta says, clutching his knife and dragging it along the bark of an elm tree. "It'll look like animal scratches—territorial markers, that kind of thing—but really, it's our path back to the base camp."

He says this as if he's done this a million times, as if he just goes gallivanting off in the woods for no reason except to carve scratches in trees. But, much as I hate to admit it, this isn't something that occurred to me, and it's actually a really good idea. In fact, I almost feel this urge to congratulate him on his foresight. But complimenting him would be tantamount to making him my equal, or close to it. The reason I permit him in this alliance is because he's a lure for the Girl on Fire. If I start to treat him like he's one of us, how I am going to justify killing him as soon as he serves his purpose?

"Do whatever you want, Loverboy," I say, hoping the nickname will piss him off. "Just don't interfere with the pros."

Peeta looks away, heat rising to his cheeks, but he's too timid to respond, and I keep walking. I think my pace actually speeds up, because by the time I look back to see if the others are still with me, Marvel and Peeta are lagging behind.

I pause, waiting for Marvel, but not for Loverboy. It's better if he's constantly winded. Exhaustion makes for easier prey.

Hours pass, and our pace eventually slows. Many tributes will be curled up against a tree, trying to get some sleep despite the cold. Since we're moving, it's easy for us to maintain our body temperatures, but at rest, the air must feel frigid. I doubt anyone will get much sleep, except for those who managed to steal blankets or sleeping bags from the Cornucopia before we drove everyone out.

I don't realize I've allowed my mind to wander until I see a bright smudge at the edge of my glasses. I pause, confused, and readjust the spectacles, thinking it's some sort of weird glare, maybe from the moon or something.

"Cato, take off your glasses," Clove says, obviously having seen the same strange glint. I obey without question, then berate myself for even that tiny amount of trust. Sure, that kind of thing is okay before the Games, but the time to trust is gone. I'm a killer. I killed two people today, and I'm planning on killing more. So is Clove. She could have been counting on my moment of trust to take me out. She's clever enough to do something like that.

Before I can slide the glasses back into place, my gaze zeroes in on a point of light through the trees. The smudge I saw isn't the same shade as what I saw through my glasses, but it's much clearer now. It shifts and writhes, orange tongues licking into the air as tiny pinpricks of light rise from the base. A campfire.

My lips stretch into a grin. "Come on," I say. "Let's hunt."


	21. Death of District Eight

Chapter Twenty-One

The others orient themselves around me, staying close. Unlike at the bloodbath, we have the advantage of teamwork. This time, there will be no casualties. Not on our side.

We hurry toward the campfire, eager to eliminate another opponent. Marvel and Clove fan out, circling from the sides. That leaves Loverboy trailing behind me. Several times, I glance at him to make sure he's not about to put a knife in my back, but he seems focused on our quarry, just like rest of us.

With my night-vision goggles, I can recognize our victim from a distance. She's the District Eight girl, and if the dying fire is any indication, she's the stupidest tribute in the Games. What kind of moron starts a fire in the middle of the night? It's like a beacon to other hunters, and while it may ward off animals, the real threat lies in human enemies. Us.

Worse, she's fallen asleep, meaning that the moment we come upon her, she's too helpless to do anything. Easy prey. She's barely worth the effort we've expended so far—most likely, she'd die of exposure anyway, stupid as she is. But we've come this far, and even though her chances of winning are slim, she still presents a threat. She's competition for resources, if nothing else.

I reach her first, pausing the let the rest of my alliance catch up. As soon as I see Clove emerging from a copse of trees to my left, I step forward and throw a kick at the sleeping girl's ribs. Her eyes flash open, and she scrambles to her feet. I grab her wrist and pin her to the tree she was sleeping against a moment ago.

"No, no, let me go, please!"

"Get her, Cato," Clove says, her knife glinting in the firelight. "Kill her."

"Happy to." I shift my grip so I'm holding both of the girl's spindly wrists with one hand, then reach for my sword.

Her pleas grow louder. "No, _no_! Let me go, I'll join your alliance, let me _go _. . ."

"Sorry," I say, my voice making it obvious to the cameras that I'm not sorry at all. "But I don't align with idiots."

A scream tears from her throat as I drive the tip of my sword through her chest. When she flails, the scream grows louder and louder, giving away our position and driving off every potential victim in the vicinity. Irritated with her, I plunge the sword deeper, through her lungs and out her back, until I feel the resistance of the tree bark behind her.

Her screams become whimpers. Her whimpers become whispers. When her body slumps, weight bearing down on my sword, I release her wrists and remove my weapon. A torrent of blood flows out of her chest as she collapses beside her dying fire.

"Nice one, Cato," Marvel says, lifting a triumphant fist in the air. With my glasses, I can see his smile perfectly in the darkness.

"I wish Remora was here to see this," Clove murmurs. "Maybe then she'd learn not to mess with District Two."

I grin, mind soaring on the visceral pleasure I've already begun to associate with killing. Yet there's still some part of me, like an echo in my thoughts, that's disgusted by the mess, by the whole situation. Because I could end up in a pool of blood like that. Or Clove could. And in order for either of us to win, that'll have to be one of us.

I turn away, cleaning my sword on the dead girl's pants, since there are no convenient rags around.

"Check her for supplies," Clove says. Since I'm closest, I kneel beside her and lift her thin jacket aside, searching for weapons, food, anything. There are a couple berries in her coat pocket, but that's the only thing I find on her that isn't bloodstained.

I hold them up for inspection and Clove makes a face. "I don't recognize them. They could be poisonous, for all we know. District Eight isn't known for their survival skills."

"Right." I drop the berries on the ground, sighing. The momentary high from this kill is already draining away, and I figure it must be my exhaustion dampening the triumph. Despite sleeping well in the Training Center, the late hour has left me fatigued. Maybe tomorrow I'll have an easier time cheering over my rivals' deaths, but tonight, I'm just tired.

"Twelve down and eleven to go!" Marvel shouts, clearly not over the excitement yet. Oddly, this is the most outgoing I've seen him. Maybe he really _is_ better suited to the arena than he is to the lunch table. But then, I remember my mother's words in the government building in District Two. _"The Games turn everyone into a monster."_

My mother wouldn't want this for me, has _never _wanted this for me, but there's no way out of this situation, and I can't compromise my ruthless persona now, since there are cameras watching. When I return to District Two, I'll tell her that I thought about her, that I remembered her words and did my best to retain as much of who I am as I could. I will tell her that the monster I've become is just a façade, meant to draw sponsors.

I will assure her that I am still her son, and she is still my mother, and that things are going to get better for us.

"Better clear out so they can get the body before it starts stinking," I say, extricating myself from my allies' admiration as much as possible.

The others murmur agreements, growing quiet once again as we continue the hunt. Our pace slows a bit, but when a few minutes have passed, Clove breaks the silence. "Shouldn't we have heard a cannon by now?"

"I'd say yes," Marvel claims, frowning. "Nothing to prevent them from going in immediately."

"Unless she isn't dead."

"She's dead," I say, because that should be obvious, with her wounds. "I stuck her myself."

Clove throws me an annoyed glance. "Then where's the cannon?"

"Someone should go back," Marvel says. "Make sure the job's done."

Everyone exchanges glances while I stand there, fuming. Stupid. I should've stuck that girl again to make sure she was dead. Now I look like an idiot in front of all of Panem.

"Yeah," Clove says, looking at Loverboy. "We don't want to have to track her down twice."

"I said she's dead!" At least she will be, soon. I know I pierced her lung. I could feel my sword hitting the pocket of air. If she's not dead by now, she's drowning in her own blood as we speak.

The others are arguing all around me, over who's going to go back and finish the job. I stay silent, fists clenched at my side, as Clove and Marvel argue over which of them ought to do it. Marvel says Clove should, because she's my district partner, and I'm the one who started this. Clove says Marvel should go back because he killed the least amount of tributes at the bloodbath except for Remora and Glimmer, who are both back at camp.

"We're wasting time!" Loverboy shouts over the cacophony of voices. I blink, surprised to hear him sound so frustrated. "I'll go finish her, and let's move on."

I snort, but I'm actually relieved that _someone _has decided to go off and deal with it. And this way, if the girl's still conscious, there's a chance she'll injure Loverboy. "Go on, then, Loverboy. See for yourself."

Peeta nods and walks off, his steps loud over the undergrowth. There's also the possibility that he'll trip over his own feet and break an ankle, in which case we have an excuse to kill him.

He disappears into the trees, but I don't hear much struggling, so apparently he hasn't injured himself. When he's out of earshot, Clove speaks. "Why don't we just kill him now and get it over with?"

"Let him tag along. What's the harm?" Mostly, I want to keep him with us for a while longer because I'm the one who offered to let him join us. If I let them kill him now, it would be tantamount to admitting I was wrong. Which I'm not. Because he actually could be useful in ferreting out the District Twelve girl.

Besides, he makes a good pack mule. "And he's handy with that knife," I add, as an afterthought. Granted, the only things he's attacked so far have been trees, but I'm sure that's changing right now.

"Besides," Marvel adds, glancing at me. "He's our best chance of finding _her_."

"Why?" I ask. "You think she bought into that sappy romance stuff?"

"She might have," Clove says. "Seemed pretty simpleminded to me. Every time I think about her spinning around in that dress, I want to puke."

Well, what an intense reaction from our resident expert on knives.

"Wish we knew how she got that eleven," Marvel says.

"Bet you Loverboy knows," Clove says. This hasn't occurred to me yet—my mind has been on other things, namely the bloodbath and this hunting trip—so her insight makes me think. It's rare for two tributes to know each other before the Games. I mean, I know District Twelve is tiny, but if their population is _that _low, they're even worse off than I thought.

I hear a rustling in the woods and draw my sword before I realize Loverboy's come back. "Was she dead?"

"No, but she is now." And then, as if on cue, a cannon fires, signaling the District Eight girl's demise. "Ready to move on?"

I shrug and look up at the sky. Already, the deep black of night is lightening to blue. Glimmer and Remora have been guarding our supplies all night, and I'm starting to get hungry. And once it's light out, our night-vision glasses will no longer give us an advantage. "Let's head back to camp. We'll hunt again tomorrow."

The others follow as I lead them back toward camp at a jog. We follow the scratches Loverboy left on the trees, knowing that's our surest way back. I'm not sure if he's been carving them the whole way, but as long as we start out in the right direction, we should make it back to the lake with few issues.

Loverboy has made himself useful. I'll have to be sure to tell him that before I kill him.


	22. Restless Nights and Bad Dreams

Chapter Twenty-Two

So it seems Glimmer and Remora haven't killed each other in our absence.

"Who's there?" Glimmer calls when she hears us approach. Through the branches, I see her lift the silver bow from the ground at her feet and string an arrow. It takes her less than a second, but once she's got the arrow strung, I notice the awkward way she's holding it, as if she's never actually shot a bow before.

"It's us," I call from our hiding place. We've ended up at the edge of the lake, having miscalculated our course. Loverboy apparently didn't think of marking the trees until we were already well into the forest.

Glimmer relaxes, lowering the bow. "Good morning, Cato. I heard a cannon. Did you get someone?"

"Girl from Eight," I say, walking along the edge of the lake. The others follow behind me. "Any action here?"

"Redhead came by in the middle of the night, but she ran off when I shot at her. I managed to find the arrow while Remora took her shift."

So they've been taking turns. Good. That means at least one of them will be able to stay awake long enough for the rest of us to get some sleep. "How long have you been awake?" I ask, lowering my voice as we draw closer.

Glimmer yawns, stretching like a cat. "Only an hour. If you guys want to sleep, you can. I'm good for a while."

I nod, unzipping the front flap of the tent and stepping inside. In the corner, wrapped in a black sleeping bag, lays Remora. Dark circles beneath her eyes tell of her long night, and I can't help but feel relieved, knowing the exhaustion will make her easy prey. Depending on conditions within the arena, the Career pack can hold together until there are no weak tributes left. Still, I've seen Games where such alliances shatter on the first day, usually over something trivial, like who should get which weapon. We've held together through that debacle, our skills diverse and accommodating, but since we all have to kill each other soon, tension is thick. Knowing there's a defenseless girl curled up in our tent makes my sword hand twitch.

Once Loverboy is out of the picture, Remora can die next. Clove won't get antsy about that—she might even think I'm doing it for her, given how much of a bitch Remora has been since the two met. Then, after that, I'll quietly slip my sword through Clove's heart and abandon this alliance before they kill me.

But for now, I want this alliance to hold together. There's too much competition to think about splitting up this early, and while I'm confident I can handle anyone here one-on-one, I'd rather not face down more than one of my current allies at a time.

I crawl into my sleeping bag. I've placed myself between Clove and Glimmer. Clove because she might actually believe my assurances that I'll take her to the final two, and Glimmer because she's sociable and doesn't seem especially cunning, compared to some of the others in my alliance.

I sleep. Remora sleeps. Clove sleeps. Marvel sleeps. But several times, I wake up to find Loverboy tossing in his sleeping bag. He's set apart from us, in the opposite corner, so he'll have to actually get up and walk if he decides to kill one of us in our sleep. But I think he's too afraid to try, or too afraid to give up on his chance of finding his fiery lover. Stupid really. Even if you know the other tribute before the Games, you have to cut all ties in the arena. There can be only one victor, and if it's not you, you're dead. There is no room for love in the Hunger Games.

At some point, Glimmer must get tired, because I wake to hear her ordering Peeta to keep watch. Loverboy slips out of his sleeping bag, quick to obey even someone as unthreatening as Glimmer, and heads outside, knife in hand. A moment later, Glimmer crawls into her sleeping bag and turns to me. "Cato, are you awake?"

For a moment, I consider feigning sleep. But I do want a status report on Remora's actions, or at least what Glimmer saw of them between shifts. "Yeah. What's up?"

She glances over her shoulder, then meets my eyes. "I don't trust Remora."

Well, that was sort of the point of putting them on guard duty together. But I have to act surprised. "Why not?"

Glimmer leans closer, her whispers growing quieter. "I heard her taking a dip in the lake last night, when it was her turn to be on watch. She says she was fishing, but she'd left her fishing spear by the edge."

Perhaps Glimmer is unaware of the Capitol's penchant for girls trying to bathe in the water. Hopefully, Remora is smart enough to realize exposing herself to the cameras is a viable means of getting sponsors. And of course she couldn't say anything about it, because that would tip the audience off to the fact that she's trying to manipulate them.

"Maybe she was bathing," I say, rolling over in my sleeping bag and closing my eyes. "The rest of us are probably going out hunting again tonight. If you don't trust her, put an arrow through her back."

Glimmer blinks rapidly, as if this is a novel idea. "Oh. Okay. Are you sure?"

Of course I'm sure. I wouldn't have told her to do it if I wasn't sure. But she must be looking for a reason, because her face has gone pale, and she's looking at me as if I might cut her down right now. I sigh. "Look, I only wanted an alliance with District Four because they know how to catch fish. But we got plenty of food at the Cornucopia, and if it comes down to it, there are always sponsor gifts. Now that we know what kind of arena we're dealing with, we can cut away unnecessary tagalongs."

Glimmer's face pinches together, and her lips pale; she must be thinking about her own position in the group, how high or low on the totem pole she is. Right now, I'd place her at fourth. Behind myself, Clove, and Marvel, but above Remora and Loverboy. Glimmer is docile, easy to control, so until the numbers dwindle, I'll keep her around.

Our conversation ends there, and I go back to sleep for a couple hours. My dreams are disjointed, nonsensical things, but right near the end, they coalesce into something that almost makes sense.

In my dream, I'm standing atop the Cornucopia, fist raised in the air as the hovercraft comes down to bring me back to the Capitol. Beneath me lie the bodies of everyone in my alliance, plus several others. Katniss Everdeen—the Girl on Fire—lies dead, my sword jammed through her heart and pinning her to the side of the Cornucopia. But I can't help but notice the figure at her feet. Clove stares up at me, her green eyes sightless, empty. The ground around her is dyed red with blood, but instead of looking toward the approaching hovercraft, I stare at the dagger sticking out of her chest. It's one of her own, and her hand is clasped around the handle, as if she stuck herself.

As if she has already set her own demise in motion.

I wake to the sound of pots and pans banging together. For a moment, I just lie there, stunned by the vivid dream. And I can't help but think that there's something to that dream, that Clove really _has _caused her own demise, just by agreeing to wait until the end of the Games to take me out.

I shake off the thought. In all likelihood, one of the braver tributes will try to kill us, and it won't be my hand that stabs her. Maybe Marvel or Glimmer will finish her off. At this point, it's ridiculous to plan as if we're all going to be around until the last few days. Some of us will almost certainly get picked off before then. As long as it's not me, I shouldn't care.

Abandoning the tent, I head toward the campfire the others have kept going during their turns acting as guard. I'm a little curious as to why no one's singled me out for guard duty yet. Is it because they actually see me as a leader, and believe me above simple guard duty? Even in my own head, that sounds arrogant. I shouldn't be exempt from the little things just because I'm in charge. No, it must be because they haven't gotten through everybody yet.

"Hey, Cato," Marvel says as I reach the campfire. Someone has set the sturdier supply crates around the campfire so everyone has a place to sit.

"Hey. Who moved the crates?"

"Peeta did. Apparently, he used to work in a bakery, and he had to lift crates like this all the time."

"You two talked?"

Marvel shrugs. "I listened in on his conversation with Remora. He's better at dealing with her than anyone else."

_Great, _I think. The two people I trust least are now conversing with each other while I'm busy sleeping. Looks like I'm going to have to split them up again tonight, which means one of them is going to be hunting with me, waiting for the opportunity to stick a knife in my back.

"Want a mango?" Marvel asks, when I don't respond.

I reach for the offered fruit, inspect it for lesions or other indications that Marvel is trying to poison me, then bite into it. It's juicy, like the peach I had yesterday, but I'm craving protein. "Do we have any meat?"

"Remora is fishing now. Glimmer went with her."

I nod, not sure whether I'd rather have Glimmer come back alone, or if I should hope they both return with something to eat. Now that I think about it, Remora might actually be useful. And we _do _need someone on guard duty while we're out tracking other tributes.

I sigh. Plotting murder can be so complicated sometimes.


	23. An Explosive Encounter

Chapter Twenty-three

"Hey, who is that?"

Remora's voice is low, signaling us to keep quiet. Our camp falls silent, all the lighthearted chatter of a moment ago vanishing as we turn en masse toward the threat. It's hard to see him, on the other side of the Cornucopia, but he's crouched down, picking at the ground with an intense expression, and his hands are covered in dirt. He doesn't notice our attention, or our sudden silence.

"Boy from District Three," Clove murmurs a moment later. By this point, everyone in my alliance has gathered so close that if one person whispered, we'd all hear it. "We should circle around the Cornucopia, try to get as close as possible before we strike."

I nod, but Glimmer speaks before I can voice my agreement. "What's he doing? Playing in the dirt?"

"Maybe digging for something," Marvel suggests. But I look closer. I have that feeling you get when you're trying to remember a word, and you can think of all its synonyms, but the exact word eludes you. As if there's a revelation on the horizon, and all I have to do is figure it out.

"Are we going, or not?" Remora demands.

I make a sharp gesture to cut her off. "Shut up before he hears us."

She falls silent, reminded of her place.

"Clove's right. He's too far to chase. Let's circle around and corner him. Keep behind the tree line."

A near-silent shuffling whispers through our camp as we abandon our supplies. Our target is close enough to our base that we don't have to worry about anyone coming in to steal our supplies. Glimmer, Marvel, and Remora head to the left, looping around the Cornucopia. Clove, Loverboy, and I head in the opposite direction, trapping him.

"Are we going to try to make an alliance, or are we just going to kill him?"

I throw an irritated glance in Loverboy's direction. "Kill him, obviously. He's District Three; he's worthless." Judging by the way Loverboy glances at his feet, he knows the same holds true for him. The only thing that makes him valuable to us is his relationship to his district partner—and even that is shaky justification for letting him live.

We draw closer to our target. The District Three boy must sense something's amiss, because he glances around, hands still poised above the patch of upturned dirt. But we're hiding in the forest, and he must not realize our camp has emptied out, because he goes back to picking at the ground. He's using the tip of a knife to dig at something beneath the surface, which seems odd. Any thinking human could fashion a more effective shovel out of things in the woods. Hell, even using your _hands _would be more effective than clearing dirt away with a knife. Yet somehow, he's cleared up quite a bit of dirt, so he's either been at this for a while, which means our alliance will need to have a talk about being observant, or the boy has, at some point, used a more effective shovel. Which doesn't make sense unless he's interacting with _something _beneath the surface that requires a more precise tool.

Across the clearing from me, I see Glimmer peering out from behind the trees. I hesitate, not sure how to signal her without giving away my position.

Clove nudges me. "Should we go?"

I remember that Clove has her knives, and Glimmer a bow. Whatever our target is doing, he's little threat to us. Unless he's got some insane skill, but I doubt it. "Yeah." My grip shifts, my sword twisting just slightly. And then I run.

It's like the bloodbath all over again, except now there aren't so many people aiming for my head. As soon as I break from the tree line, the District Three boy jumps to his feet. He freezes there, as Glimmer and the others approach from behind. We move in almost total silence, like a Capitol train speeding along the tracks. Our destination is predetermined, inevitable.

"Wait! Stop!" the boy shouts, holding out a hand. I keep running. A knife flies past the left side of my face, close enough that I can hear it slice the wind as it passes. I jump to the right, then look back at Clove.

"Watch it!"

"Cato, get him!"

I turn again to realize the District Three boy has dodged the knife. He braces himself, the point of his dagger aimed toward me. But rather than using it, he picks up a rock and lobs it off to the side. My eyes track it automatically, watching it arc through the air. Part of my brain wonders why he threw it. It lands on a mound of dirt. And then the ground explodes.

I clamp my hands over my ears, my plan of attack derailed. I scramble away from the blast, ducking low to avoid the plume of fire rising from the dirt. Behind me, Clove shrieks. In my peripheral vision, I see Glimmer and Marvel change their course, heading in a direction perpendicular to their previous route. My ears ring from the noise, and I can't help but wonder if I've incurred permanent hearing loss.

From the corner of my eye, I see the District Three boy run. Information tumbles through my mind, finally coming together and making a picture. Our quarry wasn't digging for scraps, he was reactivating the landmines. But how? I've watched dozens of Hunger Games reruns, and I've never seen anyone do that. I didn't know you _could _reactivate the landmines. Yet that's obviously what happened.

Smart. Very smart. Which makes this kid dangerous.

I run after him, keeping half my attention on the ground. The patch he's been working on was sprinkled with loose dirt, as had the spot where he lobbed the rock. Obviously, reactivating the landmines requires you to dig them up. I'll know where they are before I step on one.

The District Three boy keeps running, looking over his shoulder to find me inching up. As he breaks into the tree line, he slows, dodging exposed roots and slick moss. When he trips over a rock and hits his head on a tree trunk, he curls into a ball, groaning.

I grab him by the hair and yank his head up, the steel of my sword resting against his throat. His eyelids squeeze shut. "Listen," I hiss, hoping the others aren't close enough to hear me. I don't think any of them would approve of me taking on yet another useless body, especially after that person attacked them, but my mind is already turning. "You're going to die, so let's make a deal."

His hand twitches. I slam the heel of my palm against the back of his head, and he whimpers, tears streaming down his face. In response, I throw a kick to his ribs. "Stop crying, or I'll open your throat."

He takes a shaky breath, black eyes opening. No more tears escape.

"Now, you must know that you're nothing more than meat in this arena," I say, leaning close to him. "So your life means very little to me. But, if you can make yourself useful, that might change. Can you make yourself useful?"

He nods, chest heaving.

"Good." I release him, step back. He curls up on the ground, like an abused animal trying not to get kicked again. "Reactivate those landmines. All of them. Position them around my team's supplies so that anyone who comes too close gets blown to bits. Got it?"

Again, he nods.

"Give me your knife."

His eyes flash to mine, swimming with terror and defiance. After a moment, the defiance dies away, and he drops his knife in front of me. I slide it away from him with my foot, then stoop to pick it up. "Good dog," I say. "Now follow me. Wouldn't want the rest of my alliance killing you before you have a chance to explain."

He trails behind me as I head back into the clearing. Smoke still rises from the detonated landmine, and a dark cloud has formed higher up, like the ash cloud over a volcano. Apart from that and the golden horn of the Cornucopia, the clearing is empty. My alliance has vanished, either into the woods or behind the horn. My hands tighten into fists. "Guys, come on. Don't be a bunch of wimps."

"Sorry, Cato," Clove says, not sounding sorry at all as she walks out of the inside of the horn. "But most of us would prefer not being blown to bits."

"Whatever. Look." I grab the District Three boy by the wrist and yank him forward. He stumbles, then trips, landing hard on his knees.

"Oh, you brought me a present?" Clove twirls a knife in her hands. "How sweet."

"Too bad—it's a present for the whole group."

The false sweetness in her voice sharpens to annoyance. "You can't expect him to survive long enough for all of us to have a shot at him."

"I don't. He's going to reactivate all the landmines around the Cornucopia and move them around our supplies so we don't have to worry about thieves."

Clove cocks her head to the side. In my peripheral vision, I see Glimmer and Marvel emerging from the forest. Loverboy and Remora follow soon after, though Remora has to drag Peeta out of the woods. He's got a new bruise on his face, so I can only assume she hit him. I guess Remora's not completely useless after all. Everyone looks at me warily as they gather, and I tell them about the reactivated landmines. The dubious looks slip away, bit by bit.

"That _is _a good idea," Glimmer says, reexamining the District Three boy.

"I guess it's fine." Clove crosses her arms in front of her chest. "We can put him on guard duty or something."

Marvel nods. Peeta and Remora exchange glances, obviously wondering how the new arrival affects their place on the totem pole. As of right now, I'd put the District Three boy above both of them. At least he's useful.

"All right." I turn to the District Three boy. "You start unearthing those explosives and bringing them over to our supplies. Loverboy, start stacking everything into a pyramid. We need to consolidate our supplies so our trap works. Glimmer, Remora, watch our new pet. Wouldn't want him running off."

The boy lifts his head, resentment flickering across his face. When I glance at him, he looks away.

"Everyone else is going to help move supplies," I continue, rubbing my palms together. "Get to work."


	24. Apologizing to Rocks

Chapter Twenty-Four

It takes over an hour to move all our stuff, and longer for Circuit—the boy from District Three—to position the landmines and reactivate them. His black hair drips sweat, and every few seconds, he glances at us as we prepare for this afternoon's hunting trip. I wonder what he's thinking. Maybe he worries that we're going to leave camp, then circle around to ambush him once he finishes the trap. Which is a valid concern, considering we don't plan to let him live long.

"All right, dog," I say as he's walking between our pyramid of supplies and the three landmines he has yet to plant and reactivate. The District Three boy flinches, making my next words even sharper than I intended. "You're going to watch over all this stuff while we're gone. If anyone comes in and tries to take it, use your knife and open their throat."

"What was the point of moving the landmines if you're leaving me on guard duty? The mines will keep away anyone trying to steal the supplies."

"I know that," I say with exaggerated patience. Smart people can be so stupid sometimes. "You're staying here to make sure the mines don't go off."

He looks at me, cocking his head to the side like a dog. It's like trying to explain something to a toddler—the only way to get your point across is to speak slowly, in simple sentences. "If there's no one guarding the pyramid, someone will try to raid it. If they trigger one landmine, all of them will go off." I lean closer, emphasizing my point. "The trap only works _once_. I'd rather have it wait until later in the game to go off. Got it?"

Circuit frowns, as if my response is somehow inadequate. My hand twitches at my side, itching to strike him. Back in District Two, my father would've slapped me for questioning his judgment. It's common for the parents of Careers to discipline their children more harshly than those of lesser children. How else would they get results from us? We're trained to be violent, not to imitate the mundane activities of our parents. Violent people naturally respond better to violence.

I suppose I could hit Circuit now. It's not like the blow would be debilitating. It would just remind him of his place. But I repress the urge to strike. District Three isn't a Career district, so they likely don't respond to violence as readily as I would. And it's pointless anyway. I've got enough people vying for a chance to slice my throat. I don't need to give this boy another reason to kill me. I turn to the others. "Ready to go?"

Marvel and Glimmer nod. Remora glances around, shuffling her feet. She pauses only when Loverboy rests a hand on her shoulder. The gesture seems to embolden her, and she stands a little taller, meeting my eyes.

"Can we hurry up?" Clove asks, already walking backwards toward the forest. "I'd like to kill somebody before the sun sets."

I roll my eyes. "The sun doesn't set for hours."

She scowls. I smirk. Her fingertips trace one of the knives hanging from her belt, reminding me that we're still enemies, even if we're on the same team now. "Fine. Let's head out," I say, then turn to Circuit. "Stay here, mongrel."

Circuit shoots me a dark glance, but says nothing, still working on reactivating the landmines. We leave him behind to do his work. Who knows? Maybe he'll get blown to bits by his own trap and save us the trouble of slitting his throat later.

With six in our hunting party, our pace slows. Loverboy carries most of our gear, including two sleeping bags in case we need to camp out for the night. Marvel and Glimmer have split our food, and Remora has fishing gear from the bloodbath. We didn't run into any water sources last time, but there's probably a river running through the arena—dehydration can only entertain the Capitol audience for so long. It's possible the Gamemakers decided to make the lake the only water source, since that would draw tributes back to the center of the arena to fight over it, but by the time a tribute realized there was nothing else to drink, they'd be too far away to make it back to the lake alive.

No, there has to be another water source. A river. And where there's a river, there will be tributes to kill.

It takes most of the afternoon and evening to walk the same distance we walked yesterday. Clove and I don our nightvision glasses after the sun sets, still anxious to find more people to kill. When the anthem starts playing, the group pauses and looks up. A picture of the District Eight girl we killed late last night flashes across the sky, her expression composed, flat. Not at all like it looked when I drove a sword through her chest. We watch, unmoving, until the anthem concludes. The girl's picture fades from the sky, like an ember dying after it's cast from the fire pit.

"She was unconscious," Peeta murmurs. We all look at him. "When I finished her off, I mean. She was already unconscious. She didn't even twitch when the knife went in."

_Sentimental fool, _I think. But I don't say anything. Because when I drove my sword through that girl's lungs, all I felt was a sort of visceral pleasure at getting rid of an enemy. That feels wrong now, hearing the regret in Loverboy's voice. He's agonizing over an ultimately pointless action—after all, the girl would've died from her wounds anyway. But I'm the one who plunged a sword through her chest, twisting it and running it through her lungs so she'd drown in her own blood. If anyone ought to feel regret over her death, it should be me.

But I don't. I don't regret it at all. I'm trained not to. And for the first time, I wonder if that's wrong.

"Let's make camp for the night," I say. Loverboy's sentimental remarks subdued all of us—there's no point in driving everyone another half a mile now that their motivation has been leached out of them. We'd have to stop soon anyway.

The others move quickly, setting up a makeshift camp. Marvel pulls out a small tent. It won't fit all of us, but we'll be sleeping in shifts anyway. "Marvel, once that's set up, you and Glimmer get some rest. Clove and I will keep watch."

"What about Peeta and Remora?"

I shrug. "I'll send them out foraging or something. Maybe Remora can use those legendary fishing skills of hers." I roll my eyes. When Remora went fishing this morning, she brought back two skinny trout—hardly enough for one meal, let alone six. I'd had two bites, and then my portion was gone.

Marvel smiles. "All right. Wake us up when you get tired."

I plan on it.

Marvel finishes pitching the tent, then invites Glimmer inside. Her face lights up at his offer, then dims as she glances back at us. Which is . . . interesting, I guess. _That's going to be a problem, _I think. Love inspires loyalty. Even false, tragic love. Or maybe Glimmer's smarter than I think, and she's acting flirty for the audience, hoping to mimic that whole tragic lover dynamic that Loverboy has for his girlfriend.

Gross. Can't Glimmer just strip for the cameras to get sponsors?

"What are you thinking about, Cato?" Clove asks, plopping down on the grass beside me.

"Nothing," I snap. My cheeks warm.

Behind her night-vision glasses, Clove blinks. "Nothing? You were undressing Glimmer with your eyes."

"I was _not_!"

She sighs. "Cool it, Cato. It's called a joke."

I cross my arms in front of my chest. "It wasn't funny."

"Whatever." Her attention turns to Peeta and Remora, who've both relaxed across the clearing from us. "You planning on doing something about them?"

"Can we trust them to go foraging and actually come back?"

"Maybe." Clove starts to stand. "I'll take care of it." She walks over to the others, speaking to them in a low murmur. Peeta and Remora stand, nodding in acquiescence, then pick up their bags and head deeper into the woods. Clove returns to my side, kicking a pebble out of her way before sitting down again. The pebble rebounds off an evergreen, then bounces against the ground, landing by my toes.

"That was quick," I say.

"You should try using diplomacy instead of just ordering people around. Who knows? You might make friends." Her lips curve up a little at this; she doesn't mean it. But then, I imagine Clove means little of what she says. Her normal voice is set to sarcasm, after all.

"I don't need friends," I say, picking up the pebble she kicked and brushing the dirt off. "You should be nicer to the rocks. They might rise up and crush you."

Her smile grows a little more. "Yes, clearly my cruelty has offended the rocks."

"I bet the rock would like to hear you apologize," I say, holding out the pebble. We're both smiling now.

A soft, tinkling laugh escapes her throat, different from the derisive laughter I usually hear from her. She runs her index finger across the rock, almost like she's petting it. "I'm sorry, rock. I won't kick you again."

My body shakes with laughter. I try to suppress it so nearby tributes can't hear, but a few chuckles escape my throat anyway. Here we are, in an arena of death, and we're apologizing to rocks. It's so absurd.

It's sobering to remember that we won't have many moments like this, since one of us has to die soon.


	25. Being Tough

Chapter Twenty-Five

Mockingjays. That's the first thing I hear when I wake up, though it takes me a moment to identify the sound. All the times I've heard them before, they've been repeating the rhythmic beat of pickaxes from District Two's stone mines. These mockingjays chirp, mimicking birds and animals both strange and familiar. The cacophony twists through the air like real music. The capillaries in my eyelids glow orange as sunlight slants across my face. _Morning, _I think, and for the first time in months, I feel rested, even energized. But the sun seems too high, and even through my eyelids, the light makes my eyes sting. _I overslept._

I linger in my half-awake state a moment more before opening my eyes. The sun hovers directly above me, a gold saucer in a sea of blue, undisturbed by clouds.

"Morning, Cato."

I sit up, looking up at Glimmer. "Morning."

She smiles and hands me a canteen. I unscrew the cap, then pause. Discreetly, I sniff the contents. It _smells _like regular water, but what if Glimmer poisoned it? She had her tribute token confiscated because it contained a poison barb. And while water is valuable in the arena, taking out a grave threat at the expense of one canteen would be a decent trade-off. "Here, keep it. We should conserve our water in case we have trouble finding another source."

Her smile falters, but she takes the canteen back, slinging it over her shoulder. "Marvel started a campfire, if you're willing to use up some of our water and dry rations for breakfast."

I shrug. I'm not particularly worried about the campfire. Who, except for us, would be hunting today? People run _from _us—only an idiot would prey on a group our size. It'll be different once our numbers go down. When the other survivors start growing confident in their ability to win, whoever remains of our alliance will have trouble keeping them away. But for the moment, we're safe from all but the stealthiest tributes.

"Have Remora tally up our supplies. We have to make sure we have enough for another day of hunting."

"Sure." Glimmer walks away to relay the message, hips swinging despite the bumpy ground. There's nothing predatory about her gait—sneaking isn't her thing, apparently—but her hips sway gracefully, like those of a model.

"Cato."

I jump at Clove's voice, then glare at her. "What?"

"I went scouting this morning," she said, her voice neutral, as if she's giving me some kind of status report. "If we keep heading this way, we've got at least two miles of forest to hike through. And this far from the Cornucopia, the others are going to be desperate for water."

"You think there's a river or a pond nearby," I deduce, nodding.

"Yes. You . . . already guessed that."

I shrug. "It crossed my mind, yeah." While I'm not pleased that Clove went scouting alone, her information will help. If heading straight ahead isn't going to bring us to any landmarks, then we'll need to head in some other direction. I cross my legs, resting my elbow on my knee and my chin on my fist. The mockingjays keep chirping over my head. Their voices sound almost human now. They aren't speaking, in the technical sense, but the syllables they string together are recognizably human. They're probably picking up on our conversations and trying to mimic us. "We should head perpendicular to the path we traveled yesterday. We'll probably hit a river at some point."

"I think so, too." Clove frowns, cocking her head to the side. "You're . . . smarter than I thought."

I throw her a withering look. "Yeah. I noticed."

She crosses her arms in front of her chest, working her lower lip between her teeth as she shifts her weight between her feet. Her eyes, as green as the leaves above, flicker around the clearing. "Hey, Cato . . . I wanted to apologize."

My eyebrows shoot into my hairline. "For what?" I ask.

Her face pinches together in frustration, as if I'm at fault for not understanding. She nudges a pile of dirt with her toe, staring at the ground. "I made you look weak after you stabbed the District Eight girl. I argued when I should've stood by you."

"Oh." My eyebrows knit together. I haven't really thought about that night much. Of course, with everyone accusing me of not being able to finish the job, I should probably be worrying about sponsors. The fact that I didn't kill the other girl quick and clean makes me look incompetent, something that the rest of my alliance eagerly pointed out to me when her cannon didn't go off.

But now that I'm thinking about it, I realize I have yet to receive any sponsor gifts. Not that I need them now—I'm sure Brutus and Enobaria are waiting for a dire situation. But still, the fact that I've received nothing is a little disconcerting. _It's probably that District Twelve girl. _My lips slide into a frown. _With that star-crossed lovers crap, plus her training score, her sponsors will be raining gifts down on her._

"You aren't saying anything," Clove says after a minute.

"Oh. I, uh, forgive you." I look up, wondering if she'll go away now. Her expression doesn't change, but there's something brewing beneath that calm facade. Something that makes my lungs shrivel up inside. "Was there any other reason you wanted to talk to me?"

"No," she says, turning her face away.

"You have a sunburn," I say, noting the mottled red flesh of her neck. The color seems to brighten even as I look at it, until her skin almost seems to be glowing. I glance around. "I think Loverboy had some aloe in his backpack. That should alleviate the worst of the burn."

She shakes her head, stepping back. "I'm all right." She glances over her shoulder. "I'm going to go help Marvel make breakfast."

Before I can even respond, she's on the other side of the clearing, hovering over Marvel's shoulder. As if she couldn't wait to get away from me.

I stand and walk over to the tents the others set up last night. Though the weather outside had been relatively comfortable, most of the others retreated into the tents to sleep. My trainers often took me out to the middle of nowhere and told me to survive for a couple days until they came to pick me up, so sleeping on the ground's not a new thing for me. It could've been worse—my trainers could've sent me out without supplies, without food. But they never did. I'm a Career. No matter who my competition is, sponsors will support me. I don't _need _to worry about food like the other tributes do.

I spend the next ten minutes helping Loverboy tear down the tents. Peeta says nothing, only looks up gratefully when I start dismantling one tent from the opposite side. Regardless of how much the others look to me for guidance, I have to give the impression that I'm contributing to the team. Besides, taking down tents is easy work.

Destruction is always easier than construction.

"Hey, Cato," Peeta says after a moment.

I glance up at my name. And since I've had a relatively pleasant morning, I don't even sound impatient when I respond. "Yes?"

"I've been thinking about Katniss a lot."

Really? He's going to pester me about his nonexistent love life? "Yeah? And?"

"I think she'd make a good team member."

"We have too many people in our alliance already. Unless you plan on thinning out the flock." I raise one eyebrow, daring him to agree.

Something flashes through his eyes, reminiscent of anger, but without the edge. It takes me a moment to identify the look in his eyes as loathing. "She . . . She'd be a good ally. I think you should consider it."

_Of course she'd be a good ally, _I think. _She scored an eleven. _"Look, Loverboy, you're not in charge here. You don't have any power over me. Your _opinion—_" I sneer the word. "—doesn't matter to me. So unless you want me to shove my sword through your heart, forget it."

He says nothing more as he slides the dismantled tent back into the cloth sleeves it came from. I shove a bundle of synthetic cloth into his hands. "Take care of this."

Peeta simply bows his head and takes the cloth. I walk over to the campfire Marvel set up a while ago, noting with approval that he and Clove have successfully started a pot of soup using one of the packets of dried food we found in the Cornucopia. "Hey, Loverboy," I shout over my shoulder, not really caring if he's busy. "Bring some bowls over here. It's time to eat."

To his credit, Peeta doesn't grumble. Within ten minutes, the soup is done and we're filling our stomachs. Despite being dried and processed, it's not bad. A little grainy, though. Not fully integrated with the water the others used to cook it. Conserving liquid, I suspect. Which is wise, considering that if we don't find another water source soon, we could die of dehydration.

When we finish eating and tearing down camp, I give the order to head out. Everyone gathers up their bags, already used to the rigors of hunting. That's the nice thing about aligning with other Careers: we're tough. Even Clove, fifteen-years-old and scrawny, can carry over half her body weight with ease. We're the elite. The best. The Careers.

Nodding once to Clove, I take a path perpendicular to our original route, hoping to find water that way.

And within half an hour, one of the other tributes finds us.


	26. Slingshots and River Water

_Author's Notes:_

_Sorry for the long delay. There are a lot of reasons for my long absence, but here are the main ones: school, computer troubles, final projects/exams, final band performances, graduation preparations, graduation ceremony, graduation parties, planning my own graduation party, and being forced to go up north with my parents to spend time in a cramped RV with an army of bugs. But I'm back now, and hopefully I will suck less at updating, since it is now summer. Best case scenario is that I finish this fic by autumn. Worst case scenario . . . well, you can probably figure that one out on your own. But I owe a big, huge thanks to anyone who's still reading this story after all this time, and an extra helping of thank yous to anyone who has reviewed or will review this fic._

* * *

><p>Chapter Twenty-Six<p>

A flicker of movement from above has me falling into a fighting stance. I raise my sword, muscles tensing for battle even as my eyes dart among the branches. Behind me, the others freeze, their quiet banter cutting off.

The branches are still, the mockingjays silent.

"Cato?" Clove looks to me, then back to the trees, her expression baffled.

"I saw something. There." I point to where I saw the disturbance. My eyes narrow.

Clove frowns. "I don't see—duck!"

Everyone throws themselves to the ground. All except Loverboy, who stares dumbly at the trees as a missile streaks through the air and splinters the bark of a nearby oak. My eyes flash to the projectile, my mind taking almost a full second to catch up. Another stone sails through the air, moving almost too fast for my eyes to track. It smacks Glimmer square in the forehead, and she lets out a startled cry.

_Slingshot, _I think, snatching a rock from the ground and hurling it toward our attacker. Now that I have an idea where the shots are coming from, it's easy to find her. Armed with a slingshot and a handful of rocks, the little girl from District Eleven balances on a narrow branch, her dark eyes focused on our group as she loads another missile. I think her name is Rue, but I'm not sure. I never paid much attention to her in the Capitol. Her next shot strikes Remora, whose eyes light up with fury. "Use the bow," she snaps at Glimmer.

Blood drips down Glimmer's face, coming from the wound on her forehead. _Must have been a sharp rock, _I think, grabbing another stone from the dirt and throwing it toward Rue. This one nearly hits the mark—if she hadn't thrown herself against the tree trunk to get out of the way, it would have. I move to pick up another stone, but before I can, she launches herself through the air and latches onto a different tree.

"After her!" I yell, pointing. Clove rushes ahead, a knife in each hand. I follow, never taking my eyes off the target. Rue leaps from tree to tree as if she had springs in her legs instead of bones. She can jump almost as fast as I can run, and the leaves obscures my vision so I struggle to keep track of where she is.

At some point, Clove must see a clear shot, because she flings one of her knives through the air. I see that the trajectory is perfect. It's going to hit. It has to. Clove never misses.

But Rue must sense the danger somehow, because instead of continuing in her path, she wraps her legs around a low-hanging branch and swings downward, descending ten feet in seconds. She's almost close enough to the ground for me to reach her, but before I can even get close, she uses her momentum to fling herself upward. Her hand snakes out to snatch another branch, and once again, she's flying through the forest.

"Damn it," I hiss. "Where the hell is Glimmer with that bow?"

"Right here." Glimmer rushes up behind me, breathing hard, and positions an arrow. By the time she lifts the bow to aim, however, Rue vanishes among the trees, all signs of her passage gone.

"Nice," Clove grumbles.

Glimmer lowers her bow, blushing. "Sorry."

I sigh. _Don't get mad, _I tell myself. _This isn't the time to lose your temper. _I inhale slowly, cooling the fire in my veins. When I speak, my voice is stiff, but not harsh. "Glimmer, go wash out that wound. Loverboy's got bandages in his bag. Clove, go find that knife you threw. We're going to need it later."

Both girls hurry off, leaving me behind to stare at the trees. We were so _close_. If Glimmer had gotten here five seconds earlier, or if Clove's knife had hit its mark, Rue would be lying in a pool of her own blood by now.

Leaves crunch behind me, drawing my attention. Marvel gives me a halfhearted smile and lays a hand on my shoulder. "Forget the girl. She'll be dead soon anyway—the young ones never last long."

I stare at him for a long moment, unable to suppress my frown. _The young ones never last long._

Clove is young. Fifteen years old, she's the youngest tribute to come out of District Two in a decade. Most of us wait until seventeen or eighteen to volunteer. The only reason a fifteen-year-old would volunteer in District Two is to have a better chance of getting selected while they're eligible. But even _I_ didn't start volunteering until sixteen, and it took me two years and a lot of luck to get chosen at all.

"It's really not that big a deal," Marvel says, losing his smile. "She was fast, and too high up to get with a sword. No one's going to blame you for missing out on this one."

He still thinks I'm pissed about the District Eleven girl, I realize. I open my mouth to deny it, then pause. "Yeah, I guess." Better for sponsors to think I'm upset about missing an opportunity rather than worrying about my teammates_. _I glance back to see Clove approaching, having recovered her knife. "Ready to go?" I ask.

"Yeah. Where are we headed?"

I point in the direction I last saw Rue heading. "If that girl is still alive and jumping, she's probably found a water source somewhere. We'll follow her, then double back if we don't find her by nightfall. I want to be back at camp by tomorrow morning to restock our supplies."

The others nod in agreement, and we start walking again. This time, rather than slipping into our usual banter, we stay quiet. None of us want to reveal our presence to another tribute now that we know we're close to one. I doubt anyone would align with a tiny girl from District Eleven, but it's possible she's got her district partner with her. Unlike most of the non-Career tributes, Thresh has the build of a tank. Out of all the tributes, he's probably the only one who's got me beat in terms of brute strength. When we face him, I want to be the one to catch him off-guard, not the other way around.

We walk for almost an hour before I hear the gurgle of running water. Grinning, I push through the last few yards of brush. _Yes! _I think, running the last few steps toward the stream. I crouch down, pulling my canteen from its holster and gulping down the last of my water before plunging the container into the river.

"You'll want to make sure that water's treated before you drink it," Clove reminds me, sitting down on the bank a few feet downstream. She takes off her shoes and dips her feet in the water, throwing her head back in relief.

"Hey, Loverboy, you've got some iodine tablets in that backpack, right?" I ask.

Peeta's expression darkens slightly at the nickname, but he nods and sets down his pack. Beads of sweat roll down his face and arms, and sweat stains mar his clothes. I smirk as he tosses me the tablets. _Good thing we thought to bring a pack mule. _

I drop half a tablet into my canteen—according to the box, the appropriate ratio for purifying water is one tablet per liter, and the canteen is about half that—and screw the lid back on. Upstream, Glimmer, Marvel, and Remora start filling up their own canteens while Loverboy carves a gash in the trees to mark our path. He's the last one to fill up his canteen, and once he does, he adds the iodine and sets it aside, splashing river water on his face. He looks haggard, which is to be expected. Tributes from Twelve seldom have the stamina to walk more than a mile or two a day. The poorest district in Panem, most of them apparently starve to death before they become eligible for the Games.

I figure if they aren't bright enough to grow food for themselves, they ought to starve. My mother turned our backyard into a vegetable garden before I was born, not that we ever needed it. District Two isn't poor like the outlying districts. Between providing Peacekeepers and stone for buildings, we have one of the richest districts, second only to District One. I've never needed to worry about food because it's always been there.

_Maybe it's different for the other districts, _some part of my mind whispers. _Maybe they're dying of starvation because no one bothers to look after them. _

I shake off the thought—you can't go around feeling sympathy for your enemies just because they missed a few meals when they were younger. Besides, Loverboy obviously hasn't had such a rough childhood, otherwise he'd be thin and frail. No point in feeling pity for him.

"I'm heading downstream to take a bath," Glimmer says, eyeing both me and Marvel. "No peeping."

"Of course not," Marvel says, looking down. His face turns bright red as Glimmer strolls away.

A moment later, Clove stands, slipping her shoes back on. "I'm going, too." She pinches one of her knives between her fingers, giving me a stern look.

I lift my hands in a gesture of surrender. "Go right ahead. I'll be waiting here."

She turns away, hurrying after Glimmer. Her shoes squeak as she walks, wet with the water from her feet. After a few seconds, Remora trails after them.

"Looks like it's a girl's day out for them," Marvel remarks, rolling up his pant legs and dipping his feet in the water.

"I guess." I splash some water on my face, then dunk my head in the water. I don't mind a little dirt, but it's been a few days since the start of the Games, and a layer of grime covers my entire body. Hair dripping, I pull off my shirt and start wiping away the sweat and dirt caked to my skin, relieved to have a chance to get clean. I suppose I could have bathed back at camp, but I hadn't been all that dirty then. Besides, the open ground around the lake would have made me feel too exposed. Glimmer got her hands on a bow, but who knows what other weapons could be floating around? Rue has her slingshot, and it's possible that one of the other tributes has been lucky enough to get their sponsors to send weapons. Katniss from Twelve jumps to my mind, though thinking about her makes me grind my teeth. Between Loverboy's hopeless affection for her and her training score, she's probably got dozens of sponsors.

Not that it matters. When I'm done with her, no amount of love from her sponsors will save her.


	27. An Average Day at the Career Camp

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The girls return from their river-baths half an hour later, giggling as they emerge from the trees. _So much for stealth, _I think, sighing. Not that it matters. If the District Eleven girl isn't bright enough to put as much distance between herself and us as possible, she won't be deterred by a bunch of chattering girls. "Ever heard of stealth?" I ask as Glimmer, Clove, and Remora reach us.

"I doubt anyone would be brainless enough to stick around with _us _in the area," Remora says. I swear she picked up the Capitol's accent during our training days. Her voice makes Glimmer sound intelligent.

"She's got a point," Clove says, looking less than thrilled to be agreeing with Remora. Before I can respond, she adds, "And so do you. We ought to be quieter." She looks at the other girls, who fall silent under her stare.

"Looks like it's time to move on, then," Marvel says, picking up his backpack and slinging it over his shoulder. "You're taking the lead, right, Cato?"

"Of course." I grab my things and follow the river upstream. The terrain is a bit more manageable here compared to the underbrush of the forest. The sandy riverbanks have little in the way of exposed roots or things to trip over. Occasionally, the river turns, forcing us to follow its curve, but we still keep a decent pace. By the time evening sets in, we've walked about two miles.

I turn to face the others. "We're taking a break. Fill up your canteens and rest your legs—it's a long way back to camp."

Looking relieved, the others set down their supplies and switch back into socializing mode. I suppose I should remind them that we're supposed to be trying to stay quiet, but why bother? We haven't seen anyone since our brief encounter with the District Eleven girl hours ago, and she's long gone.

While we're sitting down, I pull my orange night-vision glasses out of my bag and slide them on. A moment later, Clove does the same, nodding in my direction. As the dusk deepens, I stretch out my legs and get comfortable, placing myself near the edge of the group so I can keep track of everyone's movements. It's a bit early yet to worry about betrayals, but Careers are notorious for making big moves to attract sponsors. Staying vigilant will keep me alive longer.

After a few minutes, Marvel pulls some dried food out of his bag and starts a fire. The brightness of the flames produces a glare in the center of my night-vision glasses, so I take them off and hang them from my shirt. As the fire grows to a respectable size, Loverboy produces a pot for boiling water. Glimmer cooks, Clove keeps watch, and Remora walks over to the river's edge and tries to fish. An average evening in the Hunger Games, at least for us.

"Should I set up a tent?" Loverboy asks, eyeing me warily.

"I actually thought we'd get going again once we eat," I tell him. To my surprise, it's not Loverboy who responds, but Glimmer.

"Come _on_, Cato. We've been walking all day. You might be ready to head back, but our feet are going to be covered in blisters if you keep pushing us."

"Precisely," Remora says, nodding as if staying here was her idea. "Let Peeta pitch a tent. We could all use some beauty sleep."

I almost point out that a little beauty sleep isn't going to make her look any better to sponsors. Almost. But chewing out my own allies won't make _me _look any better to sponsors, either. "Fine. We're still heading back before dawn."

Loverboy pulls our tent from his bag and begins assembling it. Moments later, Remora spears a fish from the river, then spends the next five minutes talking about her spear-fishing prowess. _How . . . normal, _I think as Remora sets to work filleting the fish while the others chatter about getting to eat something rich in protein, rather than just the dry food we've limited ourselves to for this trip. Tonight feels more like a camping trip than a game of death.

_Enjoy it while it lasts, _a voice whispers in my mind. _It doesn't matter how friendly it feels on the __surface. By next week, almost everyone around you will be dead. _

As Marvel distributes the rehydrated meal he started ten minutes ago, I push that voice away. We still have plenty of other tributes to deal with before we have to turn on each other. Depending on how those fights go, there might not be anyone left to betray. It's strange, but I find myself hoping that the District Twelve girl will use whatever mysterious skill she impressed the Gamemakers with to slaughter everyone in my group. Then at least I won't have to betray them.

Rather than worrying about the inevitable thinning of my alliance, I focus on my dinner. Marvel picked rehydrated pasta with marinara sauce, a favorite of mine. This close to the river, he didn't even have to skimp on how much water he added to the pot. Bits of fresh fish add an extra treat to our meal and Glimmer even slices up a couple of oranges for us. All in all, it's as close to a feast as we can make without the pyramid of supplies we left near the Cornucopia.

We go to bed with our stomachs full, leaving Remora on watch. Loverboy offers to take the second shift, probably trying to stay in our good graces, and I don't bother to assign the early morning shift to anyone. I really do plan to be on the move before sunrise, so posting a third sentry seems pointless. "Make sure to wake us up when the sky starts lightening up," I tell Peeta as I retreat into the tent. "I'm serious about getting back to camp."

He nods, obedient as ever, then takes his place in the corner of the tent to sleep until Remora's shift ends.

I slide into my sleeping bag, tucking my night-vision glasses back in my backpack. Clove lays hers by her pillow, then curls up and closes her eyes. She falls asleep in minutes, and for the first time, I wonder if I really _have _been pushing everyone too hard. We've covered more than three miles today, through uneven terrain, and we weren't exactly taking it easy before that. Once we get back to camp, I'll have everyone take a day off.

As soon as I close my eyes, I slide into sleep. Unlike previous nights, I don't dream of blood and gore, but of District Two. In the dream, I stand outside one of the mansions in Victor's Village, flanked by my parents, carrying a backpack full of my most prized possessions. For once, my father's eyes shine with pride_, _a look so rare that I can't help but smile back. My mother stands on my other side, eyes misty with joy. "We're so glad you came back," she says.

"You've done well," my father says, patting my shoulder. "Your name will be remembered in District Two for decades."

I feel a grin take over my face. Feeling a surge of joy, I sprint toward the front door of our new house. Before I reach the steps, however, Clove opens the door and steps out, freezing me in place. She's wearing the vivid orange dress she wore for the tribute interviews, and instead of her usual scowl, she's got a smile on her face. "About time you got here," she says. "I've been waiting for you, Cato." She extends one arm, offering her hand. Jewelry jingles along her arms, a multitude of colored gems winding from her elbow to her wrist, like a sleeve. I reach forward to take her hand.

Before I can, something jolts me out of my dream. I blink blearily, mumbling as someone shakes my shoulder. "What?"

"Cato, wake up!" Clove hisses. I realize she's the one shaking me and roll away, grumbling. "_Cato._ Cato, listen to me! The tent's on fire."

How can the tent be on fire? Who the hell forgot to put out our campfire? And why didn't our sentry think to splash river water on it?

Before I can get the answers to any of these questions, the full impact of Clove's statement hits me. The tent is on fire. I'm inside the tent. My eyes fly open, and I see a shivering curtain of orange above me. As I watch, a piece of burning fabric falls onto my sleeping bag, making it smoke.

Swearing, I wrestle free of my sleeping bag, kicking it away as if I'd just found a bunch of snakes at the bottom. From the corner of my eye, I see Clove dragging one of her knives across a section of the tent that has yet to catch fire. She disappears through the slit, leaving me alone. _The others must have already escaped, _I think, scrambling to my feet and wheezing as the smoke winds through my lungs. My tongue tastes like ashes, and my eyes sting from the acrid smoke. I barely have the presence of mind to grab my sword and backpack as I tumble through the slit in the tent. I stagger several feet, head whipping around as I try to see through the haze.

"Cato, this way!" Clove yells. I follow her voice, running along the riverbank. When I hear her and the others splashing through the water, I cross the stream. The force of the current surprises me—I hadn't expected such a narrow river to flow so fast. It takes all my concentration not to slip in the middle and get carried downstream.

As soon as I make it to the other bank, I take a moment to glance over my shoulder. My stomach plummets as I take in the scene. Our tent smolders, and only a skeleton of sticks remain, most of which glow red from the heat. Behind our tent, a massive wall of fire looms, spraying embers into the air and incinerating everything in its path. I gape at the uniform wall of flame, too stunned to flee. As I watch, the fire advances, consuming what little is left of our tent in an orange flash.

_The Gamemakers must have decided the Games were getting too boring, _I thought, cursing our earlier laxness. Maybe if we had kept hunting, we wouldn't be facing down this unquenchable barrage of fire. Maybe if we'd turned back instead of setting up camp, we'd be out of the way of the inferno by now.

A fireball shoots out from the wall, streaking through the air and igniting a tree forty feet away. In the distance, I hear the others yelling. Another fireball shoots in my direction, coming within inches of hitting me. I break out of my stunned stillness and sprint away from the advancing flames. And even though I know the Gamemakers wouldn't take out six of us at once, only one thought runs through my head: _We're all going to die_.


	28. The Fire

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The wall of fire pulses at my back, roaring like a dragon stirring from a thousand-year sleep. My legs burn, and my ears strain to hear the footfalls of the rest of the Career pack. Twenty minutes of hard running has put some distance between myself and the flames, but I can still feel the heat rolling across my back in waves. My throat feels dry and cracked, damaged by the smoke.

My only saving grace is the years of endurance training I've had under my personal trainer's watchful eye. Over flat ground, I can run a six-minute mile and maintain my speed for a good half hour, provided I have enough water with me. The arena's rough terrain slows my pace significantly, the jagged earth making me stumble every few steps. Worse, my sense of direction has narrowed to two categories—away from the fire and toward the fire.

Still, I run. My father will never forgive me if I die at the hands of the Gamemakers. He'd be disappointed enough if I lost to another tribute. He will not stand for me dying in this fiery trap. Less than half an hour ago, I dreamed of what it would be like to see pride in his eyes. I'm not about to lose my chance at seeing that for real.

Ahead of me, I catch a glimpse of the others in the woods. I veer to the side, angling my path so it will intercept theirs. Still, since we're all running away from the fire, it takes me a few minutes to catch up to them. As soon as I do, another fireball streaks through the trees. This time, it catches me in the shoulder. Pain blossoms where it hits, spreading rapidly to the back of my neck. Instinctively, I throw myself to the ground, hitting hard and rolling through the mud to put the fire out. A part of my mind warns me that rolling in the dirt will rub all sorts of nasty germs into the wound, but if I don't put the fire out, infection is going to be the least of my problems.

Clove must hear me hit the ground because a moment later, she's pulling me to my feet. "You're burnt."

"Yeah, I figured that out all on my own." I pat my shoulder, wincing as the pressure makes it throb with pain. At least my sleeve isn't on fire anymore.

I stand up, gritting my teeth against a wave of vertigo. Even with the fire gone, every moment that passes makes the pain more demanding. I swear under my breath, hurrying to catch up to the others.

After a while, the heat tapers off. I think the trap must have burnt itself out because no more fireballs come our way. Unfortunately, the smoke still clogs my lungs, getting thicker as the woods behind us burn away. Clove and I can't stop coughing, and it doesn't sound like the others are much better off—I can hear Marvel wheezing a few meters in front of us.

"Come on," Clove says. "Just a little farther. The smoke will clear if we just get far enough away from the fire."

As if I need a reminder. My lungs seize up, and I double over, coughing. I swear the inside of my throat is caked in soot. As I walk, I unscrew the top of my canteen and down half its contents. The water tastes like smoke, but that's probably because of the ashes on my tongue. I take another mouthful and slosh it around in my mouth, then spit out a wad of black sludge. "Ick."

"I think the smoke is clearing. Glimmer," Clove croaks. "Tell everyone to slow down! Cato's hurt."

"You don't have to broadcast it for all of Panem," I growl. But she's right. Even the sharp pain in my lungs cannot compare to the pain of my blistering shoulder. It just keeps getting worse, and the dirt clinging to the wound doesn't help. I stagger a few more feet, then take a knee, pressing my sleeve to my mouth as another fit of coughing seizes control of my body.

"Stay here," Clove says, hurrying over to the others. A moment later, she returns with a cylinder of medicine from the Cornucopia. "I'm going to rub this on your shoulder," she tells me. "You have to stay still, got it?"

"Just do it," I tell her, since I'm not in any condition to be moving. A moment later, I feel a white-hot pressure on my shoulder, followed almost instantly by a blessedly cool sensation. Unable to stop myself, I moan.

"Just breathe. Breathe and drink some water."

I take her advice, downing a few precious mouthfuls from my canteen. It's nearly empty now, expended in just a few gulps. I'm still thirsty, but in all the chaos, I've lost track of the stream. I can't even hear it anymore, which means I can't afford to waste any more water.

Clove dabs more of the burn salve onto my neck and shoulder. The relief would have brought me to my knees if I hadn't already collapsed. By the time she finishes, I'm face-down in the dirt, exhausted. I barely have the energy to mumble my thanks.

"I think the jacket's a loss," she says, rubbing my charred sleeve between her fingers. "The shirt, too."

"Wonderful." I spit another mouthful of ash onto the ground. "Perfect."

"Could have been worse. That fireball could have hit you square in the back."

"Nice to hear you sounding so optimistic," I grumble. Then, lowering my voice, I say, "Anyone else get hit?"

"Glimmer caught a glancing blow. Her hair caught on fire, but I don't think she's hurt. Everyone else is just fine."

Well, damn. A fire would have been a good way to thin out the competition. I suppose there's a chance some other tributes got caught up in the blaze, but I haven't heard any cannons go off.

Clove sighs, screwing the cap back onto the jar of medicine. "I'm saving the rest of the burn salve in case your shoulder needs another treatment tomorrow. You think you can walk?"

"I didn't burn my _leg_, Clove. Of course I can walk." Bracing my good arm against a nearby tree, I pull myself up. The smoke has dissipated a bit, but my chest still aches with every breath. It makes me think I'm going to be in pain for a couple days. Not much I can do to fix that except get back to camp and rest up. At least by the lake, we don't have to worry about being engulfed by flames. Probably. Then again, the Gamemakers have control over everything in the arena. If they _really _want to burn us alive, they could probably drain the lake and send another torrent of fire in our direction.

Somehow, that doesn't seem very likely to me. The Capitol prefers to watch tributes kill each other—there's no sport in the Hunger Games if the Gamemakers just slaughter everybody. Wiping out a group of our size all at once would take out more than half the remaining tributes. More likely, they never intended to kill us with this fire anyway, just to throw an extra challenge at us. To play with us. Like a little kid burning ants under a magnifying glass.

We regroup, gathering in a copse of trees and passing around the extra canteens of water we've made Loverboy carry around all day. The lingering smoke makes everyone cough, but at least it's lifting. Soon, it'll be clear enough for us to get a grasp on our location. I think the fire has pushed us back toward the center of the arena—one of the main reasons the Gamemakers trigger such traps is to keep tributes away from the edge of the arena. With so few of us in such a large space, it can take days of wandering for tributes to run into each other. Thus, the booby traps. They can't shrink the arena itself, so they shrink the area of the arena that's worth traversing.

Which means they probably pushed us toward another group of tributes. At once, the realization makes me lift my head to look around. Marvel does the same, his hand wrapping around his spear. Within moments, the rest of the group catches on, and we've all got our hands on weapons. Even Loverboy holds his knife in front of him, studying our surroundings.

"What is it?" Glimmer asks when nothing jumps out at us.

"The fire . . ." I take a breath, surprised at how winded I sound. "The Gamemakers must be trying to push us toward another group of tributes." I press my sleeve to my lips, pausing to cough. The others glance around, looking alert.

"It could be the ditz from District Twelve," Clove says. "I bet the Gamemakers would _love _to see that fight."

I coughed again. If it _is _Katniss, I'm going to take my time carving her up. I still can't believe she got an eleven. What skill could possibly be so remarkable that the Gamemakers would hold her in such high regard? What did she _do_? Sprout wings and fly?

"Come on," I say, picking up my sword. "We're going hunting."


	29. Alone Together

Chapter Twenty-Nine

"Cato, no offense, but how are we supposed to see anything through the smoke?"

I glance at Marvel, then look out into the forest. While the air has cleared enough to let us breathe, visibility remains poor. Sighing, I set down my sword. "I guess we'll wait. But when it clears, we're combing through this forest."

Marvel frowns, then starts digging through his supplies. "Well . . . it looks like we have enough dry rations for two more meals, assuming we don't feast like we did last night. How long are you planning on keeping us out here?"

"As long as it takes," I snap. "It's two meals, Marvel. We're not going to starve. If it comes down to it, we can hunt for food while we're hunting tributes."

He holds up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "I'm just making sure we won't run out before we get back."

"We won't." I sit down, glaring into the woods. The sun peeks through the trees, its light weakened by the curtain of smoke. We must have been running longer than I thought if it's already past dawn. After our rude awakening, we all look exhausted. Remora has shadows under her eyes—probably because she spent part of last night on watch duty. Loverboy sits a few feet away, head bobbing as he tries to stay awake. Even those who slept until the inferno look tired.

"All right," I say. "Does anyone have sleeping gear they saved from the fire?"

The others glance at each other, shrugging. Clove pulls her sleeping bag out of her backpack. Rather than a compact roll, it's crumpled heap of fabric. I imagine she just jammed it into her bag on her way out of the tent. "It's warm enough out here," she says, unzipping the sleeping bag and laying it on a flat patch of ground. "We can take turns resting until the smoke clears."

Laid out, the sleeping bag looks big enough for three or four of us. Grudgingly, I nod to Remora and Loverboy. I don't care much for either of them, but they _did _each spend a good part of last night keeping watch. One of them must have raised the alarm when the fire started. Probably Loverboy—it was his shift. Between marking our path and keeping watch, he's been pretty useful to us. Still an outsider, but the longer he stays, the less he seems like a prisoner. He's still one of the first to go once the numbers dwindle, but it surprises me to realize I might actually regret killing him.

_What's wrong with you? _I ask myself. _He's from District Twelve. He's not even a Career. _

Glimmer settles in on the edge of the sleeping bag. I look up to meet Clove's eyes, then gesture to the sleeping bag. She should take the last bit of space. One, it's her sleeping bag. Two, she's the one who shook me awake last night when the fire rained down on our tent, so I pretty much owe her my life. Granted, one of us will be dead soon, and if I have to make a choice between me or her, I'm going to save myself, but until then, she ought to get the VIP treatment.

Clove shakes her head and waves me over. I glance at Marvel, but he's apparently fallen asleep leaning against a tree. Keeping quiet, I walk over to Clove. She stands as I approach and, casting one last glance at the others, gestures for me to follow.

Puzzled, I follow her about fifteen meters into the woods. It occurs to me that she might want to get me alone so she can put a knife in my chest, but she doesn't even touch her weapons.

She stops suddenly, but doesn't turn to face me. I wait, frowning. Why has she brought me here? To talk? To strategize? Does she think it's time to ditch the group and go off on our own? It seems too early for that, but Clove's got good instincts. If she wants to leave, I should at least consider it. We could make it back to our main camp, say that the others got ambushed and we had to leave them behind. Circuit, the boy from District Three we left to guard our supplies, won't know enough to stop us from taking whatever supplies we can carry and running off with them.

The more I think about it, the smarter it seems to abandon the alliance. But if we leave now, we'll be outnumbered when the others decide to track us down. Clove and I may have the highest training scores apart from Fire Girl, but if the rest of the Career pack comes at us all at once, we won't escape alive. Plus, with only two of us, we'd be vulnerable if any of the outlying districts decided to team up to take us down.

"You haven't tried to kill me yet."

I look up. Clove still hasn't turned toward me, but I can see the tension in her shoulders. I'm not sure how to respond to her statement. It's not like I can reassure her. This _is _the Hunger Games after all.

"I'm giving you a perfect opportunity," she says quietly. "My back is turned. I've got my knives, but they're not in my hands. You're strong enough to snap my neck, if you're worried about making it look like I died from a sword wound."

I stare at her, baffled. Has she lost her mind? What kind of tribute gives a known competitor the opportunity to take them out of the game?

What kind of tribute stands still, waiting for the opportunity to slip away?

"What are you trying to prove?" I finally ask.

"I saved your life last night, Cato. Everyone else woke up when Peeta started yelling. Everyone but you. A smart tribute would have left you behind to die. But I . . ." Her breath catches. "But I saved you anyway. And I don't know why."

I don't know what to say. I mean, I know what I _should_ say—what the pre-Games Cato would have said. She missed an opportunity by waking me up. One of us has to die anyway, and if she saved me, she must not want to live very badly. I wouldn't have saved her if our positions had been reversed. Those are the things I _should _say.

But they're not, I realize, the things I _want _to say. "Clove, listen . . ."

"You must have thought about it," she says, nodding to herself. "Killing me before I have an opportunity to kill you. I know it's crossed your mind. I've thought about it, too. Whenever you're wrapped up in your sleeping bag, or when you leave your back exposed to us while you lead us through the woods, or when you stop looking at the rest of us as a means to an end and start looking at us like friends, even for a minute. Every time, I try to imagine sticking a knife in your back."

"So why haven't you?"

"I don't know!" She flinches at her volume, then continues on, quietly. "But when I think of killing you, it's like trying to imagine running away from home. I can make a plan, even prepare for it, but I know I'll never actually be able to leave, so . . . So I don't." Her hands clench into fists, and for an instant, my hand goes to my sword in preparation for an attack. But it doesn't come. Instead, Clove turns toward me. Her face is bright red, as if she spent the last six hours staring into the sun. Two trails of moisture glisten on her cheeks. As I watch, a pair of tears slides down her face, following the shiny tracks left behind by their predecessors.

It reminds me of the night of the tribute interviews, when Remora insulted Clove until she cried. I remember feeling the unfamiliar compulsion to comfort Clove, even knowing she was my enemy. I remember holding her in my arms, murmuring false reassurances about keeping her around until the end of the games. I remember thinking, in what I later labeled as a moment of weakness, that I might not be able to kill her when the time came.

"Clove . . ."

"I mean, you aren't even that likeable," she says. "I should have no problem stabbing you in your sleep."

"Clove."

"It's not like I can afford to keep you around. We both know you're stronger than I am. I have to catch you by surprise if I want to kill you, but you can snap my neck whenever the hell you want and—"

"_Clove_."

She stops, breathing hard. "What?"

I drop my sword at my feet and cross the distance between us. Her eyes widen, and she instinctively takes a step back. Before she can retreat, I take her hands in mine and hold them between us. Her breath catches, and for a second, the whole world goes still and silent around us.

And then I lean forward and kiss her.

* * *

><p><em>Author's Notes:<em>

_I know, I know. This isn't listed as a romance. It's not _supposed _to be a romance—if it was, I'd have listed both Cato and Clove as the characters for this fic. But personally, I think this relationship works. Granted, they probably wouldn't have fallen in love without some extenuating circumstances, but when you're put into a long-term survival situation with a group of people, you tend to form very strong bonds in a very short amount of time. I've been laying the groundwork for this for a while, though a lot of the foreshadowing has probably been lost due to the sheer amount of time between updates. I'm not particularly good at writing romance, as I've never been in a romantic relationship, so I'm practicing here. Comments, criticism, and other such related topics are very much welcome. Thank you. _


	30. A Deep River

_Author's Notes:_

_I know. I suck at updating. I try not to suck. I really do. But since I still suck anyway, here's a quick recap: The Career pack narrowly escaped the Gamemaker-induced inferno, losing many of the supplies they were carrying around with them, and Cato and Clove have just kissed._

* * *

><p>Chapter Thirty<p>

Once, in District Two, my personal trainer told me to jump off a bridge into a river. I remember her saying something about how a tribute has to take risks to stay alive, about how I couldn't hesitate when an opportunity presented itself, no matter how dangerous. My trainer—a woman named Grace—had walked me to the middle of the bridge and dropped a stone over the guardrail.

"That's how far you have to jump," she said once the stone hit the water. I'd stared into the water as I might stare into a pool of hungry sharks. My legs froze. I stopped breathing. My hands began to shake.

Grace hoisted me up and pushed me over the edge.

I remember the wind biting into my skin on the way down, the terrifying void beneath my feet, the adrenaline pounding through my veins. I remember the sense of betrayal—not that one of my trainers would do this, but that my father would allow them to. And I remember, beneath the shock and betrayal, I felt alive, really alive, for the first time in my life.

That's what I feel now, as my mouth fastens over Clove's. Alive. Only now, at this moment, my life's not in danger. _This must be why they call it "falling" in love, _I think, as weightless as if I'd been thrown from another bridge, this time without the reassurance of a river waiting below.

After a moment, the tension in Clove's body relaxes. Tentative fingers wrap around my arms, surprisingly delicate for hands that have killed, for hands that will probably kill again. In fact, _she _feels surprisingly delicate in my arms. My hands slide down her shoulders, and I feel the bones even through her jacket. Her arms, too, seem thin when I wrap my fingers around them, her bones as breakable as a bird's wings. When I allow my hands to rest on her hips, they feel somehow fragile.

I pull back, the weightless feeling extending to every inch of my body. _She's so thin, _I think. Why haven't I noticed this before? I mean, I know she's tiny compared to most Career tributes. Not as small as most of our competitors—if you can even call them that—but still bony, lacking the curves that make tributes like Glimmer so attractive.

A cold dread clamps around my stomach, and I want to deny the thought that comes to my mind—that she looks more like someone from the outer districts than someone from District Two. But somehow, her proximity changes everything. Looking at her, she no longer seems slender and fine-boned. She seems skinny and gaunt. Starving. And none of us have missed a meal since we got to the Capitol, which means she's either not eating or . . .

"Why did you volunteer for the Games?" I whisper. My voice sounds far, far away. _Tell me it's not because you needed the prize money for food, _I want to say. _Tell me you volunteered to bring honor to your family. _

Her hands fold around mine, and I realize we're still standing inches from each other. I want to move away, to separate myself from her so I won't have to see the sallow look to her face, so I won't have to see the signs of malnutrition I somehow missed before.

"My family needs the money," she says, looking down.

Something fractures inside my chest. Unthinking, I pull my hands out of her grasp, stepping back. My legs feel stiff, wooden. As I retreat, a haunted look flashes through Clove's eyes, followed by vulnerability. I think back to the moment after Grace pushed me off the bridge, to the moment in the air when I looked down at the murky water and wondered whether I would break my legs when I hit bottom or drown in the river's depths.

Today, I've fallen into a very deep river.

Her eyes harden. "What?" she demands. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"I . . ." I don't know what to say. I don't know what to think.

Her face evens out, the blush fading from her cheeks as if we didn't just spend the last minute and a half kissing, on live TV, in front of all of Panem. "You must have it pretty good, Cato," she sneers. I don't flinch. I think my brain has disconnected from my body, because I can't seem to remember how to move. "I bet you've never gone hungry. Bet you've never gone more than eighteen hours without a meal." A threatening edge enters her voice, as sharp as the knives she carries on her belt. "Yeah, I bet you've had it real good, big and strong like you are."

"What are you saying?" I whisper. Her eyes flash to me, gleaming like a cat's eyes.

"Why do you think I'm the youngest of the Career tributes?" she asks, walking toward me. "Because I'm that determined to prove myself? Because I'm so focused on glory that I volunteered young to increase my chances of getting picked at the Reaping?" Her fingers trace the dull side of one of her knives, and my eyes flash to her hands. If she tries to pull that knife out of her belt, I'll kill her. I'll have no choice. She's too dangerous not to kill, and even thinking about avoiding it is a dire mistake. With those knives, her range is far greater than mine.

"I have a sister, Cato. Did you know that?"

I blink, not comprehending. What does that have to do with anything? But it must be important because she continues, her voice soft, dangerous. "A few months ago, she got sick. Really sick. Our family doesn't have healthcare. My dad works in the quarries, but to get benefits, he'd need to give up a piece of his paycheck, which we can't afford. My mom's been out of the picture for years. We've been paying my sister's medical bills out of pocket because no insurance company will take us. She's dying, and the only thing that can save her is medicine from the Capitol, which we can't afford. Unless . . ."

The pieces click into place. "Unless you win the Games."

She nods. "My dad said that this was our last chance. If I hadn't gotten Reaped, it would've been over already. But now . . . Now that there's a real chance of me winning the Games, maybe there's a chance we can save her." Her voice wavers for a moment, and I see the glint of tears in her eyes. Clove balances on the precipice of a total breakdown. She takes a deep breath, and I can't help but think about how fragile she looks now. As fragile as spun glass. "She's my _sister, _Cato. My only sister. I can't stand by and watch her die. Not when I can do something about it."

A moment of silence passes between us as her words sink in. Part of my mind wonders what kind of illness her sister has. A different, more suspicious part suggests that she's making all this up to get sympathy from the Capitol. And yet . . . She's a Career tribute, like me. She wouldn't rely on audience sympathy. If she needed sponsor gifts, she would do something daring, something brutal, like killing someone from our group. No, Clove wouldn't use her sister for audience appeal. Even if she did, she would remain stoic, unfeeling, strong like the Career she's supposed to be.

I'm starting to realize that neither of us are really what we're supposed to be. In the past five minutes alone, I've kissed a competitor and entertained the thought of sparing her, even protecting her from the others. And Clove has committed the ultimate taboo for Career tributes—she has shown weakness.

We are not what we are supposed to be, but that means we are not what everyone else expects of us. We defy the norms. And that makes us dangerous.

I step forward, taking her hand. "Let's make a deal."

Her eyes widen, but I can see the wariness in them. She withdraws her hand. "What kind of deal?"

"A promise," I say, lowering my voice. "The odds are in our favor. They have been ever since they scored us in training. The only one higher than us is that girl from District Twelve, and so far, she hasn't even come after us. So." I take a breath. "So we stick together, take her out. When we make it to the end, we fight, just like we agreed. If you win, you get the money you need to save your sister."

She frowns. "And if _you _win?"

"Then I'll give your family the money for the medicine. You won't be there to see it, but I promise you, if District Two has a winner this year, your sister will be saved."

She blinks, a blank look taking over her face. Her lips move, but no sound comes out. After a moment, tears bud in her eyes. Cautiously, I lean forward and press my lips to her forehead.

My chest aches. That's how I know that I mean it. I'm not going to break this promise. I'm not going to fail her. And I'm not going to let her die.


	31. An Encounter with Katniss Everdeen

Chapter Thirty-One

The others are sleeping when Clove and I return to our makeshift camp. With no tent and only one sleeping bag, we've got almost nothing for shelter. I sigh. We'll have to head back to the lake soon. I cough, partly to wake up the rest of the group and partly because I breathed in too much smoke during last night's fire. Clove raises an eyebrow at me, but doesn't comment as the others stir.

"Aw, c'mon," Remora says, rolling over. "It hasn't even been half an hour."

"The fire happened for a reason," I snap. I've never liked Remora, and I hated her even more after she made Clove cry after the tribute interviews. Her fishing skills are the only thing keeping me from wringing her neck, and that is shaky justification at best. "The Gamemakers probably wanted to push us toward another couple of tributes. Well, we've got the numbers and the skill, so let's go."

Groaning, she stands. The others rise with less fanfare, looking tired but not angry. They, at least, know I'm in charge. Even Loverboy moves quickly, obedient as ever, and within minutes, we start combing the woods for other tributes. The inferno obliterated a good portion of the trees, but you can see where the flames stopped. It's like an invisible curtain separates the healthy forest from the charred, still-smoking trees caught in the blaze. Still, the smoke knows no boundaries, creeping through the woods and limiting visibility. If we have one weakness as a group, it's stealth—you just can't expect six people to move in perfect silence, no matter how well trained. And with everything covered in smoke, our prey will be relying on sound more than sight.

I turn to Glimmer. "Take Loverboy and Remora about twenty meters that way and walk parallel to us."

"Why?"

"Because I said so." Because three people walk more softly than six, and because twenty meters is still close enough for us to get each other's attention if we spot something.

Glimmer isn't bright, but she's loyal. She nods to Remora and Peeta and leads them in the direction I pointed. Marvel and Clove stay with me, and we form a small triangle. I wait for Glimmer to get far enough away, then continue on, keeping a slower pace to reduce noise. Clove and Marvel must understand my logic on sending the others away because neither of them say a word.

We walk for about an hour before Clove touches my elbow and points to my right. My eyes follow her finger to a reflective pool, and I grin. If there's one thing we need more of after the fire, it's fresh water. I angle my course and wave to Glimmer's group, gesturing for them to converge. Through the smoke, I see her nod, but Clove grabs my upper arm, drawing my attention. Urgently, she shakes her head, jabbing her finger toward the pond. I frown, looking toward the water again. The surface is covered in lily-pads, and a rim of rocks surrounds one side of it, sheltering it from the ash and smoke. But despite the natural barrier, there's a pile of ash-stained material sitting at the edge of the pool. With a jolt, I realize it's another tribute.

"It's that District Twelve girl," Clove hisses.

"Cato, what do we do?" Marvel asks. I glance over my shoulder, then look toward Glimmer's group. She hesitates, closer than before, but unsure whether to come to our aid. After a moment, I wave her closer and turn back to the pool. A pair of eyes meet mine, then disappear as the girl—Katniss Everdeen, the one who scored an eleven in training—staggers away from her pond.

"After her!" I yell, no longer concerned with stealth. We take off, Glimmer's group falling in behind ours. We don't have time to explain to them what we saw, but their instincts are sharp enough to make them follow. My eyes stay locked on our quarry as she streaks through the underbrush. One of her legs is bare, the pant leg cut away to reveal an angry, blistering burn. I think it must slow her down, but she's still quick for her size, and when she reaches a nearby tree, she shoots toward the top. It reminds me of that other tribute we saw—Rue, from District Eleven. Katniss isn't quite that fast, but by the time we reach the bottom of the tree, she's twenty feet up and breathing hard.

She smiles. It's not a victorious smile. It's not even a happy-to-be-alive smile. It's the sort of smile that precedes the words, "Hey, neighbor, how are you doing? We're just about to grill up some burgers if you want to join us."

"What's she smiling about?" Clove asks. Before she can get an answer, Katniss speaks.

"How's everything with you?"

I blink. Maybe I've been a little cocky since the Games started, but I sort of expected her to be terrified of me. Then again, she did flee up a tree, and apparently it hasn't occurred to her that we can follow, so maybe she thinks she's safe.

Glimmer fumbles with her bow. "I can shoot her down."

"No, don't," Loverboy whispers, his hand clamping around her wrist. "You don't need to kill her. She could make a great ally."

"If you think we need more allies, you're an idiot," Glimmer says. And coming from Glimmer, that means a _lot_.

I crane my neck to look at Katniss. She's surveying us like a cornered animal seeking an escape route. _Not as fearless as you want us to think, are you? _I clear my throat. "We're doing well enough," I say, mimicking her neighborly cheer. "Yourself?"

"It's a bit warm for my taste." She nods in the direction of the inferno. "The air's better up here. Why don't you come on up?"

She's taunting me, but it's too obvious, like she's luring me into a trap. Maybe someone else would hesitate to take her suggestion, but I'd bet money that she's bluffing. "I think I will."

"Here, take this, Cato." Glimmer hands me her bow and her quiver, and I hear a hiss from above as Katniss's eyes lock onto them.

"No." I push aside the bow. "I'll do better with my sword." I touch the hilt of my weapon, reminded of its comforting weight. I rarely notice it anymore. Having a weapon has become as natural as breathing for me, and wearing a sword is like wearing pants—I would feel exposed without it.

I start climbing, pulling myself up onto the lowest branch and then using that as a stepping stone as I reach for the next. Tree-climbing was part of my training in District Two, if not a big part. I test each branch as I ascend, checking which ones will support my weight, but by the time I climb five feet, Katniss scurries halfway up the tree, moving like a squirrel. _There's no way this girl scored an eleven, _I think to myself. She's too tiny, too weak, too malnourished. The thought reminds me of the things Clove told me earlier, but that's different. Clove might be malnourished, but she's a Career tribute. She's _better _than Katniss.

A branch creaks as I grab onto it, and I let go, trying to find an alternate route up the tree. But it's the only branch I can reach that even has a chance of supporting my weight, and I have to get closer if I want my sword to do any good. I reach for the branch, wincing as it creaks again, and begin to hoist myself up. A sudden crack roars in my ears as it gives way, and I swear as I begin to fall. My arms spread out, catching branches on the way down and slowing my descent, but when I hit the ground, all the air rushes out of my lungs. Pain blossoms in my back, and my shoulder, already seared by the fireball this morning, burns with fresh pain.

Someone swears loudly. I think it might be me. Shocked, I roll onto my stomach, and now I know I'm the one cursing, because being angry is the only thing that can distract me from the pain, and if I cry on camera, everyone in District Two will mock me, whether I win or not. Of course, if I don't win, I won't be around to hear their mocking, but . . . better not to be mocked at all.

"I'm going up," Glimmer says, scaling the tree. I should tell her there's no point. Katniss is eighty feet up now, and even if Glimmer gets further than I did, there's no way she'll make it that high. When the branches begin to creak under her feet, she gingerly steps down and raises her bow to fire at Katniss. If anyone still needed convincing that Glimmer is an idiot, this proves it. In the tree, she can't even hold the bow correctly, let alone line up a good shot. When she looses an arrow and hits a nearby tree, the District Twelve girl grabs it and waves it over her head.

"Oh, that bitch," Clove mutters as Glimmer, red-faced, begins her descent. "I hope she falls. I hope she falls and breaks her neck."

Ah, Clove. Sometimes I forget how charming she can be when she's slavering for blood. I wait for Glimmer to reach the ground, then address the group. "All right. Ideas?"

"Maybe we can climb one of the other trees nearby," Marvel says. "There must be some with more stable branches."

"Not that high up," Remora says, tilting her head up. "Look at her. She's sitting on a pile of twigs."

"We can't get up there," I say. That much is obvious.

Clove shrugs. "She's got to come down sometime."

For the first time since trying to stop Glimmer, Loverboy speaks. "Oh, let her stay up there."

I throw him a look. It is not a friendly look, but rather than paling, Peeta stands taller, his voice becoming almost harsh. "It's not like she's going anywhere. We'll deal with her in the morning." His eyes glitter with some barely-controlled emotion. I don't think it's anger, exactly. In fact, I don't think it's anything like anger at all.

"You trying to buy her time, Loverboy?" I sneer, leaning toward him. "Because you're right. She's going nowhere. Nowhere but down. And when she does come down, I'm going to ram this sword through her chest." My hand wraps around the hilt of my sword for emphasis, and this time, Peeta backs down, shoulders curling inward. "Tell you what: I'll even kill you when I'm done with her, so you can be _together forever_." The last words drip with scorn.

Loverboy's eyes narrow, but he says nothing. I shove his shoulder, then walk a few steps, laying down my jacket and lounging at the base of a tree. "Settle in, everyone. Let's see how long it takes for her to accept her fate."


	32. The Betrayals of Tomorrow

_Author's Notes:_

_I know, I know. It's been forever. I suppose I could list all my reasons for the break, but it would just be a list of excuses. The fact is, I'm lazy, and I just now got around to writing this chapter, and I apologize for the long wait. Luckily, I am writing the next chapter as you're reading this, so that should arrive in a more timely fashion._

_Recap: Cato and the rest of the Career pack have just chased Katniss up a tree after the Gamemaker-induced inferno. The Career pack intends to wait until Katniss is forced by hunger or pain to climb down the tree so they can kill her. Within the Career alliance, a sub-alliance between Cato and Clove has developed into a romantic entanglement, which resulted in a kiss and a confession from Clove about her real reason for volunteering: to win money for her sister's medical expenses. Cato has promised Clove two things: The first, to make sure that he and Clove are the last two remaining and will fight one-on-one once all the other tributes are gone; and the second, to cover Clove's sister's medical expenses should he win the Hunger Games._

* * *

><p>Chapter Thirty-Two<p>

Hours pass, and Katniss settles lower down the tree, situating herself between two branches. I can hardly see her from the ground, but her leg is blistered and burnt, and I bet it hurts like hell.

"The Capitol must be loving the irony," I mutter, crossing my arms. Clove and Marvel glance at me—Glimmer, Peeta, and Remora have gone to refill our canteens at the pond where Fire Girl was resting before we found her.

"Irony?" Marvel asks, cocking his head to the side.

I tip my face back, nodding toward Katniss. "It looks like the Girl on Fire got her leg toasted in the inferno."

Clove snickers. Marvel grins, but doesn't laugh. Minutes later, the rest of the group returns, distributing the canteens. "So," Glimmer says, leaning against a tree trunk, "what are we going to do if she doesn't come down?"

"She'll come down," Loverboy says before I can respond. I glare at him, but he doesn't seem to notice, as his eyes are fixed on Fire Girl. _So much for the star-crossed lovers act,_ I think to myself._ Bet the sponsors aren't too happy to see him hunting her down._

I smile. I don't really care that Loverboy has the gall to insinuate himself into our alliance, or that he and Katniss both survived this long despite being from District Twelve. The thing that's always bothered me most about them is that they took away our sponsors. From their fiery outfits in the tribute parade to Katniss's bizarrely high score in training, they've outshone us at every stage. I bet if I kill both of them, all those sponsors will flock to support District Two. They'll call me the boy who extinguished the flames, or something ridiculous. The Capitol does that sometimes. Gives nicknames to favored tributes. Finnick Odair, a beloved Victor from District Four, had half a dozen nicknames among the Capitol. The Spear of District Four. The Trident King. The Raging Storm.

If I want to net District Twelve's sponsors, I'll have to be the one to kill them both. Me or Clove.I close my eyes. No. It has to be me. Because even if Clove is my closest ally, only one of us is going home. I need those sponsors to be thinking about _me. _

"I'm going to heat up some water for soup," Marvel says. Loverboy pulls a small pot from his backpack and hands it to Marvel, and we all contribute some of the water in our canteens to the pot. Barring further interference from the Gamemakers, we'll refill them again at the pond before we start moving again.

"So, who do we have left to kill?" Glimmer asks as Marvel empties a pouch of spicy powder into the water to make broth.

Clove sits back, ticking off the number of tributes on her fingers. "Fire Girl, both tributes from Eleven, the boy from Ten, the girl from Five, and Circuit, when we get around to killing him." She doesn't say any of our names, but the fact that only one of us can survive hangs in the air. Loverboy is first on that list, once we take care of his girlfriend. Then Circuit, before he flees. Then Remora, because no one likes her anyway. It's time to start cutting away dead weight. If we don't, it'll result in another bloodbath once we get rid of our easier targets, most of whom will be wandering alone through the woods, dehydrated and starving. Katniss, Peeta, Circuit, Remora. Four people to kill before the decisions get harder.

Then I have to consider the next logical choice: Clove. The thought makes my stomach twist—she is the last person I want to kill—but she is the only one apart from Katniss who can match me in the tribute scores, and without the element of surprise, I might not walk away from that fight. So I have to get rid of her. I keep telling myself that, but it doesn't ease the lump in my throat, and I'm grateful when Marvel distracts me by announcing that dinner is served.

We eat in relative silence. I don't know if it's because the others are wary of the Girl on Fire, still out of reach up in her tree, or because we've run out of things to say that don't involve killing each other. I glance up every few minutes, like Katniss will find a way to escape. Who knows—running and hiding could be the talent that earned her an eleven in training. Unlikely, but possible. But instead of leaving, she pulls out a sleeping bag and belts herself more securely into the tree. _In it for the long haul, huh? _I smile. Like she'll really be able to stay up there more than a day or two with that burn. From my personal trainers, I learned that, as far as open wounds go, burns are both the most painful and the most likely to get infected, with or without treatment. Having her die of infection would be anticlimactic after we chased her up a tree, but at least she'd be out of the way. And for all his insistence that he's hunting Katniss, too, Loverboy will probably freak out when her cannon goes off. Grief will make him insensible. An easy kill.

Night falls. I think the days here must be shorter than normal, because even though a lot has happened today, we can't have been awake more than eight hours. The Gamemakers do this sometimes, just to alter the scenery and play up the drama—they seem to think that the arena gets scarier after dark, which is only true if they have more threats to go along with the night. But so far, I haven't seen anything even resembling a predator. The Gamemakers must be waiting. The Games usually last at least a week, just so they have enough footage to satisfy the Capitol. It doesn't benefit the Gamemakers to kill us off early on. In fact, it's usually only when the Games go on for two weeks or more that they start killing off tributes with predators and natural disasters, though sometimes they kill one or two early on for shock value. I think of the wall of fire they created early this morning, how it didn't actually kill anyone, though I know both myself and Katniss got burned.

"Seems like the days are getting shorter," Clove comments, turning one of her knives in her hands.

"Yeah, I think so, too." I lean against the trunk of the tree where our prey is hiding. "More dramatic, I guess."

Her eyes flicker to the others, then back to me. "Want to come with me and refill our canteens?" she asks, and it's not an idle question, but a request for a minute alone. My heart speeds up a little. The last time we were alone together, she kissed me and told me about her family. I'm not sure whether to look forward to this time alone or dread it, but I get up and sling my canteen over my shoulder, heading toward the pond.

Once we're out of earshot of the other competitors, Clove speaks. "I think we should ditch the others."

My eyes widen. "What?"

"They're all thinking the same thing," she goes on, her voice firm, businesslike. "Did you hear how quiet they were during dinner?"

"Yeah, but that doesn't mean they're going to decide to slaughter us. We've still got enemies out there to pick off before we split."

"It's not about dealing with other enemies, Cato." A hint of acid seeps into her voice. "It's about who betrays who first. Think about it—except for the District Twelve girl, you and I have the best training scores. So once she's out of the way, who do you think the rest of our alliance is going to target?"

"Loverboy and Circuit," I say. "They're dead weight, anyway."

"And Marvel and Glimmer could easily take them both down without us."

I fall silent for a moment. "Maybe, but we've still got other enemies, and it's not like we can't handle the rest of the Career pack, if it comes down to that."

"I don't think so," she says, sounding uncertain for the first time since we left our temporary camp. We reach the pond and dunk our canteens in the water. Bubbles of air rise to the surface, each holding their form only for an instant before popping. Clove takes out a small dropper of iodine and adds the right amount to our canteens to purify the water. "We might win a fight with them, if Remora and Peeta don't get involved. But the chances of getting injured would make it dangerous even if we killed them both. Remember, infection can kill just as easily as a knife. If we get wounded . . ."

"All right, all right. We'll leave after we kill Katniss. But not before then. We don't need a wild card like her running around the arena, especially if we're splitting off from the other Careers."

Clove nods. "I guess. But definitely once we've killed her."

"Yeah, definitely," I say, wishing I meant it. Before she can say anything else, I go on. "We should head back. Everyone knows how long it takes to fill a canteen, and if we're gone too long, they'll start to think we're plotting against them."

"Right." Drying off the outside of her canteen, she starts walking back toward camp. Then she stops and turns to me, a blush creeping into her cheeks. "Look, I know only one of us can win, but I want to thank you for what you said before. About taking care of my family if you win."

The reminder sinks into my stomach like a knife, but I nod. I promised her that I would look after her family, her sister, and that's one promise I'm actually willing to keep. I just hope they can accept that gift, knowing that it cost Clove her life.

We return to camp, and no one seems to give our absence much thought. After about an hour, Marvel makes a comment about it being time to sleep, since the blaze this morning cut into last night's rest. We set up a schedule for guard duty—Clove and I will have the last shift, just before dawn. Then we lay down on the one sleeping bag Clove managed to save, and I try not to think about the betrayals of tomorrow.


	33. Hallucinations

Chapter Thirty-Three

I wake to the sound of screaming.

I leap to my feet, my hand seeking the hilt of my sword. As I do, pain lances through my hand, and I jump backward, my shoulders hitting what feels like a cloud of pebbles. _That doesn't make sense, _I think, staggering backward. A deep buzz resonates through the clearing, like a thousand bees swarming all around us.

And then I realize that's exactly what's happening. The dim morning light filters through the trees, illuminating a shifting swarm of tracker jackers.

More screams pierce the air. One of them belongs to Clove. The other to Glimmer. Loverboy, Marvel, and Remora are silent. Or dead. It's hard to tell in the chaos, and I can't see much through the swarm. "To the lake!" I shout for the benefit of anyone who's still alive. A spot of pain blossoms on the back of my neck, a white-hot needle shoved under my skin and left to burn.

I don't waste any more time. I spin around and run, but the swarm splits, and a trail of tracker jackers—deadly, poisonous tracker jackers, which I've only seen on TV—follows me. The stinging pain grows more intense with every second, spreading like liquid fire through my veins. Behind me, Glimmer's screaming wavers, becoming thin, weak. _Dying. As good as dead. _The thought makes me run faster, and I catch sight of Loverboy ahead of me, racing through the undergrowth. Anger pulses through my veins—if he had a head start, he could have at least spared half a second to kick the rest of us awake.

We careen through the forest, the tracker jackers clustering around us. Twice more, I feel the searing pain of their stings. _What did my trainers used to say about tracker jackers? _I wonder, my head swimming. _Something about hallucinations? _

That can't be right. I'm not hallucinating. Not yet. But I do feel strange. Sick, almost. Another wasp stings the back of my neck, and fire blooms in a circle around the wound. _Have to keep running, _I think. And I do. I run, my legs wobbling, trying to remember which direction the lake was in. It can't be far. The inferno yesterday morning pushed us closer to our camp near the lake, so we can't be far . . .

"Cato." The voice seems to come from everywhere and nowhere, and it seems familiar, though I can't place it at first. "Cato, keep walking."

_Grace? _I wonder, thinking of one of my old trainers. _What is she doing here? _

"Keep walking, Cato," she insists, stepping out from behind a tree. She wears a dress made entirely of leaves, and her skin is covered with mud. As I watch, her eyes begin to droop in her face, her flesh melting like candle wax, and the leaves shimmer, flashing gold and red and green. But her voice remains undistorted as I pass. "You're hallucinating. You have to find water. They won't follow you into the water."

I keep moving, even when my legs start to feel leaden. Ahead of me, Loverboy trips, ending up face down in a patch of mud. "Mud means water, Cato," Grace continues, reappearing suddenly in front of me, one arm draped around my father's shoulders. I stumble forward, passing Peeta as he rises to his feet. The buzzing is everywhere now, and the golden wasps streak through the air in front of me. "Find the water."

Something catches hold of my ankle, and my momentum throws me forward, through the cloud of tracker jackers. But instead of hitting mud, I land face first in the pond where we've been refilling our canteens. Water rushes into my mouth, my nose, burning almost as badly as the tracker jackers' stings, but I can feel the wasps beating at my exposed back, like a flock of tiny birds. Ignoring the panic in my lungs, I swim downward, until my forehead hits the mud at the bottom and bubbles rise from my nose. The water does nothing to soothe my stings. I am drowning, dying, but if I go back to the surface, my death will be much worse. I think of Glimmer's screams, of the way they tapered off, as if her airway had swollen shut. On my hand, I see a massive bulge where I was stung, and I don't even want to imagine what Glimmer looked like before her screams died away.

My body twists beneath the water, and images float above me. I see a striped snake with three heads slithering through the water, then a bird bursting into flame above the surface. I'm certain now that I am hallucinating, and if I can't get above the water level, the hallucinations will consume all rational thought until I no longer have the mental capacity to save myself.

Part of me thinks that might be an acceptable death. Drowning, disoriented from a surprise tracker jacker attack. Not a pretty death, but at least no one in District Two will mock me for it. As heavy as my body feels, it would be easy to give up, to just lie at the bottom of this pond and let my lungs fill up with water as the venom works its way through my body. But then I remember Clove. I don't know if she survived or if she suffered the same fate as Glimmer back at our temporary camp. But if she died, then I have to win. For District Two. For her family. For mine.

The lack of oxygen clouds my vision with gray dots. I begin to swim toward the surface of the pond, but what was once a pond is now an ocean, an ocean topped with a layer of ice too thick to break through. I pound on the ice, but I can't even crack it. A shadow creeps atop the solid surface, a thick-shouldered, humanoid monster with red pits for eyes and teeth like razors. The shadow closes in. The ice above fractures like glass, and the shadow stoops down, ripping at me with jagged teeth. Somewhere in my mind, I know this can't be real. It doesn't make sense. Then that part fades and all that is left to me is dreams.

* * *

><p>"Look at that," Caesar Flickerman says. I sit in the hard, bowl-shaped chair I occupied during the tribute interviews, looking over my shoulder at a screen so large that I have to crane my neck just to see the top. On the screen, I am hacking away at another tribute—Marvel, I think—with my sword. Blood runs down the blade, over my fingers, then my knuckles, and even though it's only on screen, I swear I can feel the warm wetness sliding down my skin. It's only when I look down at my hands again that I am sure they are clean. "<em>That<em>," Caesar continues, "is a marvelous moment."

"It's always a marvelous moment when a tribute becomes a Victor," I say, though I cannot recall deciding to respond. I chuckle, turning in my chair and looking out at the audience. My parents, invited to the Capitol to witness my coronation as the Victor of the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games, rise from their seats in the front row, cheering wildly.

"Indeed it is. So, Cato, now that you're a Victor, what do you plan on doing with your life?"

"Well, first there's the tour," I say. "Then of course I'm going to take advantage of the opportunity to do a bit of traveling through the districts. I've always wanted to see District One and District Four." Visiting different districts is a privilege reserved for Victors and Capitol citizens, and something I've wanted to do since I was a child. "Don't get me wrong—my main reason for volunteering was to bring honor to District Two, but being a Victor has some nice side benefits."

Caesar laughs. "That it does, Cato. That it does. But really, beyond traveling, where do you see yourself in a few years?"

An image pops into my head. Clove stands at the end of a narrow path spotted with pink and white petals, flanked on either side by rows of chairs. She's taller than I remember, and not as thin as she was during the Games. A gauzy white dress moves across her body, accented with red at the bottom, as per District Two tradition. Red is supposed to symbolize the blood we walk through each day to achieve our goals, although no one ever says so, since it's not exactly the most romantic image. I don't know why I'm so sure that it's Clove in that dress, since her face is covered with a white veil, but it has to be her. It has to be.

Suddenly, I'm not on stage anymore. I'm standing at the other end of the aisle, wearing a sharp black-and-white suit that wouldn't be out of place in the middle of the Capitol, though it is the quality, not any hint of eccentricity, that makes it so. Clove turns to me, her veil still obscuring her face, and starts forward, marching slowly down the aisle. She must be beautiful, under that veil. The most beautiful woman in the world.

We meet under an ornate white arch, and, unable to stop myself, I pinch the sides of her veil and pull it back to expose her face. And then I freeze, because it's not Clove's face under the veil. Or maybe it is, but it's wrong, all wrong. Her eyes have filmed over, gathering the foggy cataract common to corpses. A deep gash on her cheek exposes the muscles of her jaw, as well as a few broken teeth. One of her eyes bulges out of its socket, leaking a clear fluid from a rip in her cornea. Welts cover the other side of her face, darkening her skin and stretching it so much that it's ripped in places.

In disbelief, I lift one hand as if to touch her face, but then her body shatters like glass, and the rest of the scene goes with it, leaving me in darkness until I see a wavering orange light. Sickened, I trudge toward the light, stopping when something pulls on my legs from behind. I look down to see chains wrapped around my shins, keeping me from moving forward. Ahead of me, the light grows brighter, larger, and I realize it's a flame. It creeps down the tunnel, crackling and roaring, and at its center, Katniss Everdeen stands, a pair of ash-gray wings extending from her back. Her eyes glow like embers, and as she steps forward, the fire engulfs me, sizzling away my flesh, melting my shackles.

Darkness. Other scenes flicker through my mind, most of them starting out benign, then becoming twisted, horrifying. It can't be real; none of it can be real. But it must be, I think. Maybe this is what death is like. Not a peaceful nothingness or a kingdom in the clouds, but a world where you walk alone through your worst nightmares as they drive you to madness. At one point, I'm kneeling in front of my father, looking up into his flinty eyes. "No. Please, no," I beg, though I don't know why. "No more. I can't take it anymore."

"Worthless boy. You've squandered every opportunity I've ever given you. It's no wonder you failed this time."

"No! I'm not a failure. I won! I won the Games; you were at the coronation ceremony!"

My father shakes his head and turns away, but when I try to stand up and follow him, I realize that I have no legs to walk with, only raw stumps that burn and bleed when I move. "Come back!" I scream, wishing I could be angry enough to shove aside the sense of abandonment I feel.

Suddenly, I sit in a chair in my living room, my mother sitting across from me, staring blankly at the floor. "My boy. My sweet little boy, what have they done to you?"

"I'm here." I rush forward to take her hands in mine, but she doesn't react, only shakes her head.

"Gone, gone, gone . . . How could you be gone? How could I have let you go?"

Her hopelessness shreds my soul like razorblades. "I'm here, Mom. I'm right here."

"I should have never let you go. Never, never, never . . . My sweet, precious Cato . . ." Tears leak from the corners of her eyes. "Why did I let them turn you into a monster?"


	34. Waking Up

Chapter Thirty-Four

"Cato. Cato, come on, wake up."

I stir from a light doze, mind swimming with half-forgotten nightmares.

"Cato, come on, we don't have time for this. It's been days."

_Days? _The word bounces around in my mind. It must have some significance, because my whole body rattles, and I think it must be fear making me shake. Fear, like the unceasing paranoia that followed me through my dreams. There is something important about the passage of time, something else I was supposed to be doing, but now I'm behind schedule, and I can't remember, can't even think . . .

"Help me drag him back to camp," says the voice. I imagine myself inside a bubble, and on the outside of that bubble are hundreds of tiny, almost invisible bubbles, and those are the words to me. Tiny. Insignificant. But when a second voice joins the first, those bubbles hiss angrily.

"Can't we just kill him?"

"Not until your girlfriend is dead," the first voice snaps. The sharpness in that voice seems wrong. This voice should not be sharp, it should be . . . calm, controlled. Like always. But when was always, and where do I know this voice from?

Pain jabs into my side, and my body jerks, like a marionette whose strings have suddenly been snatched up by a puppeteer. My eyes open, and above me, I see green. Green like emeralds in the sky. Green, shifting and moving like a field of grass. Green like . . . _Like tree branches, _I realize. That moment of clarity brings into focus where I am, what I'm supposed to be doing. I am in the middle of a forest, fighting against twenty-three other tributes. In order for me to live, everyone else in the arena must die.

My name is Cato Talaith, and I volunteered for the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games. I've been hallucinating for a yet-to-be-determined amount of time, due to being attacked by a swarm of tracker jackers. I am also, thankfully and surprisingly, not dead.

"He's waking up," says the second voice. Peeta. And the first voice was . . . Marvel. Yes, that sounds right. But the others . . . Glimmer must be dead. I remember hearing her screams die away as I ran. Remora . . . Who cares? No one liked her much anyway. Marvel, Peeta, Glimmer, Remora . . .

Clove.

Where is Clove?

"Clove?" My tongue mangles her name, and I see Marvel and Peeta peering down at me, both grimacing. Marvel has two orange-sized bulges on his face, one by his chin, the other on his forehead. To my dazed mind, they look like tiny, extra heads. Loverboy has one on the side of his neck.

"What was that?" Marvel asks, turning his head so his ear faces me more directly.

"Clove," I say. My voice sounds funny. It may have something to do with the swollen lump near the corner of my mouth. _Damn tracker-jackers._

"Clove . . . I carried her back to camp after I woke up," Marvel says, somewhat sheepishly, as if he expects me to strike him for saving her. Maybe I should—it would show the sponsors that I'm serious about winning, even at the expense of my district partner. But I'm too relieved to feign anger, so I just nod. Looking a bit more confident, Marvel continues. "She got stung pretty bad, and she was hardly breathing, so I carried her back to camp and tried to find some medicine for her stings. She wasn't awake when I left."

"Left? The camp?"

"The camp at the lake," he clarifies.

_The lake? _Before the tracker-jacker attack, I had a general idea of how far we were from our main campsite. But between our abrupt departure from our temporary camp and the hallucinations, I no longer have any idea where we are.

"Glimmer is dead," Marvel goes on, his voice somber. "She died first. Remora lasted a couple minutes, but she didn't make it to the pond in time, and they kept stinging her, and . . ." He stops, and a shudder runs down his body. "I've been fading in and out for a couple days, I think. I'm not sure exactly how long it's been."

I nod, not feeling much like talking. Now that the hallucinations have gone, pain is my greatest enemy. Every tracker-jacker sting burns, and I can feel my pulse where my body has swollen as a result. _No wonder I've been out so long, _I think, counting the stings on my body. There are eight bulges, some larger than others. I must have instinctively ripped some of the stingers out, but on other bulges, I can see them like black specks at the center of my wounds. I pinch the end of one between my fingers and yanking it out, gasping at the radiant pain that spears through the wound. My body twists, and before I can regain control, I find myself retching.

"Yeah, you got stung pretty bad," Peeta says. "You're lucky we found you."

I throw him a look as venomous as the stingers in my wounds, and he flinches back. "You," I growl, my voice thick because of the bulge on my face. _You wanted Marvel to kill me, _I think, remembering a snippet of the conversation I overheard before I became entirely coherent. "You traitor."

"Cato?" Marvel shies away, looking alarmed. Loverboy gapes at me, his face going bone-white.

"Hold on, hold on," he says, waving his arms around. The movement looks so surreal to my eyes, slow and choppy, and it reminds me that I'm barely strong enough to sit up. "You can't blame me for that. I was hallucinating, too."

His words give me pause. This is not the confession I'd have expected to hear, if I'd expected one at all. "What?"

"He went back to warn his girlfriend to leave before the rest of us doubled back," Marvel says, shoulders sagging. I'm about to ask him why he didn't stop Loverboy from scaring off our prey, but then I see Peeta scramble to his feet.

I don't think. My hand shoots to my hip, fingers wrapping around the hilt of my sword. This . . . This _traitor _not only went back to save an enemy, but he must have had the tracker-jacker ambush planned from the start. That's why he suggested waiting for Katniss to climb down. That's why he laid out our supplies right by the bottom of the tree, where we'd be directly in the path of the falling hive.

I swing just as Peeta gets to his feet. A slash of red cuts through my vision—droplets of blood spraying from his leg. Loverboy lets out a girlish shriek, pressing his hand to his bleeding thigh and staggering backward. I slash at him again, but my depth perception is as poor as my perception of movement, and the blade swings harmlessly through the air. "Get back here!" I shout, fury twisting through my chest, driving me to my feet only for the haze in my brain to bring me to my knees again. Marvel catches me before I topple into a tree trunk, but I keep yelling. "Traitor! _Traitor_! You're lucky I don't drag this sword through your gut!"

"Cato, calm down," Marvel says urgently. "Calm down. You've still got some venom in your system. It'll be a while before it wears off."

"Oh, why do you care?" I snap, bracing one hand against the ground and struggling to my feet. I have to lean up against the nearest tree to stay standing.

Marvel lets out a gusty sigh. "The leg wound will get infected. That's a slower, more painful death than gutting him would be, so let's consider his punishment for betraying us dealt with."

I round on him. The whole forest spins around me, and I forget for a moment what I was going to say. Marvel rests a hand on my shoulder. "Half our alliance is gone now, Cato," he says quietly, and the words—the fact that Glimmer and Remora are dead, that Clove may be dying—finally begin to sink in. "Look, I know everyone was thinking it was time to thin the herd a little, but that tracker-jacker attack cut our number in half. If you're not counting the District Three boy watching our supplies," he adds as an afterthought. "And if Peeta warned Katniss, then she must still be alive. At least, I didn't hear any cannons after Remora and Glimmer . . ." He trails off, then shakes his head, a shaky laugh escaping his throat. "Three Careers left. Never thought so many of us would die at once."

In my first few waking moments, I was too disoriented to pick apart the shades of emotion in his voice. But I hear them now. The words make his voice shake, and he stoops over slightly even when he stands, weighed down by some invisible force. In District Two, it is shameful to show grief over lost loved ones. Our hearts are as hard as the rocks we dig up in the quarries. But District One is softer than District Two, and even though their tributes are Careers, they are not expected to be so unflinchingly strong.

_That's going to affect how many sponsors he's getting, _I think, though I'm not sure whether he'll receive more due to audience sympathy, or less because his grief will be interpreted as weakness. I suppose it depends on how he deals with it over the next day or two. But the Capitol audience can be unpredictable, and since that's where most of the sponsors come from, it's hard to know for sure which tributes they loved or hated until after the show is over.

"Think you can walk?" Marvel asks.

I scowl, making a show of standing upright, despite my dizziness. "Of course I can."

"Good, because the sun's about to set, and if we want to make it back to camp before we're out of daylight, we'd better get going."

Marvel takes the lead—an annoying necessity, to my mind. I have, after all, been in control of this alliance since we arrived in the arena, so allowing someone else to take the lead now will only complicate my role in this group. But since I don't know the best route from this place to our camp—or even where we are in the arena—I have no choice but to follow.

As I walk, my mind drifts to Clove. Marvel said when I woke up that she was alive, but severely affected by the tracker-jacker stings. I'm not entirely sure how the venom works, but it seems safe to assume that it wears off over time, and would be most intense at the point when all the stingers have just finished depositing their poison into the wound, so if she's survived this long, she'll probably recover. But if there's one thing I've learned since my name was called at the Reaping, it is that there is no such thing as certainty in the Hunger Games.


End file.
